


Don't Judge a Master by Its Death

by eternalchange



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Some coarse language, Trio Friendship - Freeform, also lordship-y things, and by slow i mean very slow, canon up to and including Ch 34 of DH, hopefully not cliché despite the cliché themes, slow building romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3459056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalchange/pseuds/eternalchange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry walks to his death, and speaks with Dumbledore. But why was it Dumbledore and not his parents? Or even Sirius or Remus? As events unfold, Harry realizes that things were not as they seemed, and black and white are but two shades of an infinite continuum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own 'em - they're all JKR's babies. If they were mine, college tuition would be the least of my worries ...
> 
> Note: Underlined parts are all taken directly from Chapter 35 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

He spun around.  Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him, sprightly and upright, wearing sweeping robes of midnight.

“Harry.”  He spread his arms wide, and his hands were both whole and white and undamaged. “You wonderful boy. You brave, brave man. Let us walk.”

“P-Professor?” Harry blurted out.  Although he had been rather overwhelmed at the presence of his parents accompanying him through the forest to his death, he was certain they hadn’t mentioned hallucinating dead headmasters being a side effect of the killing curse.  “Aren’t you dead?”

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed with something – malice? No, he must have imagined it.

“Oh, yes,” said Dumbledore matter-of-factly. 

“You’re here to take me … on, then?”  There was something nagging at the back of his mind.

“You have a choice, my boy,” Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling.

Wait – what? 

“I – I don’t understand, sir.”  He had thought the whole thing was quite straight forward, really. Give himself up to Voldemort, get hit by the Avada Kedavra, and die.  Nowhere was there a mention of a _choice_.

Something suddenly occurred to him.  “Professor?  Why are _you_ here? Where are – where’re mum and dad? And Sirius?  And Remus?”  He shook his head in bemusement as he took in his surroundings. “And why are we at King’s Cross?”

He definitely didn’t imagine the spark of irritation in the headmaster’s eyes then. 

What was going on?

 _I told her you were intelligent,_ a smug voice sounded in his head.  _I knew I had not chosen wrong._

Oh great, now he was hearing voices as well.  Being dead really was not all it was cracked up to be.

 _Keep up, Harry. Your ‘headmaster’_ , the voice sneered, _has plainly stated that you are_ not _, in fact, dead._

Clearly, his mental voice did not think highly of Dumbledore.

“Harry?”

_You will see why soon enough, Harry.  Pay attention now; he wishes to impart his ‘genius’ to a captive audience.  I will speak with you later, when you are alone._

“Sorry sir, this is all a bit overwhelming,” said Harry sheepishly, hiding his grimace.  Who the bloody hell was that voice and why was Dumbledore being so … shifty? There was definitely something suspicious about the way he was acting. 

Couldn’t he even have a normal death?

“Not to worry,” Dumbledore waved off.  “After all, it must come as quite a surprise to realize that you survived the killing curse once again.  As I was saying, Harry, you have a choice. You may go … on, as it were, or you can choose to go back.  We are in King’s Cross, you say?  I think that if you decided not to go back, you would be able to … let’s say … board a train.”

Thoughts and emotions whirled through Harry’s head. He could continue on – truly dead – and see his parents again.  A deep yearning filled his heart.  Had it been only moments earlier in the forest that he had seen Lily’s – _his_ – eyes and James’ quiet pride? Sirius’ carefree smile and Remus’ reassuring calm? 

And yet – and yet, there was Hermione and Ron to think of, and Ginny.  The rest of the Weasleys. Neville.  Luna.  Hagrid.  His breath caught.  Teddy, his godson. He couldn’t run away from his responsibilities, not when doing so would leave behind an orphaned baby that he had sworn to look after.  His own godfather had borne twelve years with dementors and another two years on the run for him, and Remus had been a perpetual source of strength.  He would honour their memory by looking after Teddy – he could do no less.

“Voldemort does, of course, wield the Elder Wand,” Dumbledore interjected hastily.  “Defeating him would likely be a rather daunting task for anyone not of your calibre.”

Harry frowned contemplatively.  It seemed that Dumbledore wanted him to go back, if he interpreted his carefully worded suggestion correctly.  Was he looking too deeply and blowing this out of proportion? Maybe his old headmaster just wanted him to live a long and fulfilling life.

But it just didn’t ring true to him.  What did Albus Dumbledore stand to gain when he was already dead anyway?  Shoving his thoughts to the side for a later time, he forced a smile.  “Do you think I should return, sir?”

“I think,” said Dumbledore, “that if you choose to return, there is a chance that he may be finished for good.  I cannot promise it.  But I know this, Harry, that your fortitude has very few limitations, and if you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything you choose.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Harry glanced again at the raw-looking thing that trembled and choked in the shadow beneath the distant chair, wishing there was something he could do to help it. Hopefully, once Voldemort was truly killed, his soul would become whole again and he could finally have some peace. “I will see to it that he is defeated beyond question.”

Dumbledore beamed at him with obvious delight and, in Harry’s eyes, relief.  “Of course, my boy, I have no doubt that you will do your parents proud.”

An unexpected wave of anger rose up in him at that (because watching their child endanger his life over and over again was _obviously_ what every parent truly wished for), but he wrestled it back down before giving another strained smile.  “How _do_ I get back, professor?”

Dumbledore smiled enigmatically.  “You only have to close your eyes, Harry, and let go.”

 

* * *

 

With a darting glance at Hermione and the Weasleys huddled together, Harry slipped silently out of the Great Hall, exhaustion seeping out of every pore of his body. 

He had finally done it.  Voldemort was gone for good, and he had – somehow – walked  out of it alive, though he didn’t feel like it at the moment.  The adrenaline that had kept him going through the battle was utterly drained, and every muscle throbbed with a bone-deep ache.  What felt like weeks of dirt and grime weighed him down, and every step was an effort. 

It was the thought of the wailing yet jubilant mob he had left behind that gave him the strength to shuffle slowly up the stairs, occasionally tripping over bits of stone and blackened portraits.  He couldn’t help the pang in his chest as his hand trailed along the fractured wall, chips and cracks marring the previously smooth surface.  Hogwarts had never felt more desolate than at that moment, and he could almost feel the weariness emanating from the ancient castle.

Finally, he came to a stop in front of the wall opposite the crumbling portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, where one troll was still feebly twirling in its singed tutu.  He walked back and forth, wishing fervently that the Fiendfyre hadn’t destroyed the Room of Requirements.  All he needed was a pillow and some quiet, and he could sleep for days.

“Come on,” he muttered desperately, “just let me in.”

Gradually, almost reluctantly, a door emerged, as grungy and splintered as the rest of the school, and Harry grasped the doorknob and pushed it open.  His legs moved without conscious thought to the spartan bed crowning the centre of the equally austere room, the door creaking shut behind him.  Sending a last thought to the room to keep anyone from entering, he surrendered gratefully into blissful unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a much longer story than my last one (not that that's a difficult thing to do). At the moment, my plan is to update in two weeks. That being said, it's definitely not a guarantee since classes start tomorrow (and most of the story is only a rough outline floating in my head).
> 
> As always, reviews are welcome! :)


	2. Chapter 2

A quiet murmur filtered through the fog in his head. _Harry, you need to get up.  We have much to discuss, after all._  

Harry burrowed further into his pillow.  “Jus’ five more minutes, Ron,” came the muffled slur.

Ron sounded oddly entertained.  _You will still be asleep, Harry, I just need you to wake up._

Harry’s jaw cracked as his mouth opened in a wide yawn. “Yeah, mate, because that makes so much sense.  You sure you didn’t get anything other than the Deluminator from Dumbledore?”  He groaned as his eyes fluttered open, rising from the bed reluctantly. “Like a cryptic sense of – ”

That certainly didn’t look like Ron.

The man sitting before him had his eyebrows raised in mockery, lips twitching in amusement at his confusion.  His almost translucent skin and pitch-black hair shone youthfully with an inner, indefinable power.  Lounging casually with legs sprawled in his throne-like chair, he had a sort of careless grace that reminded him so painfully of Sirius that his breath stuttered in his chest.  A silk black shirt stretched over his chest, the top two buttons left open and sleeves rolled up. Combined with the faded black jeans, eyebrow piercing, and the gun resting in its leather holster, he looked like a bizarre yet exquisite cross between a billionaire and a street thug.

Harry’s mouth moved before he could stop himself. “Are you related to me?” He felt a blush rise as his words registered, and gestured vaguely with his hands.  “Only, your hair, …”  He groaned and covered his eyes.  “Just – never mind.”

The man narrowed his eyes playfully and held a hand to his chest in mock outrage.  “Are you insinuating that my sleek locks look like that nest you call hair?  How could you?” 

“Er, well, who are you, then?”

The man rose to his feet and took an extravagant bow.  “Master, allow me to introduce you to Death, your humble servant.” 

Harry laughed at the ludicrous statement.  “Uh huh, Fred – ” here he felt another sharp stab in his chest, “– and George have been taking the piss out of me for seven years; you’re going to have to do better than that.”

The man sat back in his chair and leaned forward, his face much more sombre. His black eyes suddenly looked centuries old.  “I _am_ Death, my Lord. If you recall, I spoke with you while you were at King’s Cross with,” he sneered disdainfully, “Dumbledore.”

Harry felt an ominous sense of foreboding creeping up inside him. This could not be true. He refused to accept it.

Leaning on his elbows, the man fixed his eyes on Harry’s. “ ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ was quite true, my Lord, and you owned the three Hallows.  Granted, you did not physically have all three on your person at the same time, but those,” he flapped his hand disinterestedly, “are just details.”

“Death,” Harry stated flatly.  “I’m currently having a chat with _Death_. Well, you can bloody well shove off now, thanks … Unless you’re here to take me to my parents?” The implied _finally_ remained unsaid in the air, and he winced at the almost plaintive tone had crept into his voice.  But in all honesty, was it too much to ask to _stay dead_ when one died? 

One could only hope, but somehow, he had the feeling that things were not so easy. 

He sighed internally.  Why was it always him?

“You were marked by Fate herself, which is why it is ‘always you’, as you say,” the man – _Death_ , Harry reminded himself– remarked wryly. “In fact, she has been trying to discourage my choice of you so much that I feel she was trying to claim you for herself.”

Harry frowned in indignation.  “Wait, you can read my mind?  Are you performing Legilimency right now?”

“I am in your head at present, my Lord.”  He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the vast, smoky grey surroundings.  “This is your mindscape.”

Harry ground his teeth in irritation.  “First, drop the whole ‘my Lord’ rubbish. Harry will do just fine – _please_.”

“As you wish.  My Lord.” Death grinned cheekily, before adopting a more serious expression.  “You look like you’re about to burst with questions, Harry. You have but to ask.”

Harry didn’t know where to begin.  In what universe was there an instruction manual for this situation?  It was so inconceivable that it utterly boggled the mind.  Fate had clearly decided that for one Harry James Potter, being normal was highly overrated and nigh impossible.  Not to mention that if Death hadn’t staked his claim on him, Fate herself would have done so.  Ergo, _he_ was Master of Death because of a series of disastrous events that honestly barely made sense to him.

And now he was literally _arguing with Death_ in his head.  How was this his life?

He took a deep breath, trying to sort out the jumble of confusion that his thoughts were knotted into.

“You said – you said that I didn’t have all three Hallows on me together but that it didn’t matter – are you _sure_? Because Mr. Lovegood had said that it was uniting the three Hallows that makes the possessor Master of Death.”

“And of course, Xenophilius Lovegood would know more about being the Master of Death than me, Death.”  He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.  “I may have tweaked some things here and there, I admit –” he held his hands up as Harry opened his mouth, “but you would only have become Master of Death if you were worthy.  Anyone could have held all the Hallows – in fact, a couple of your predecessors have done exactly that, as did Dumbledore, though again, not all at once – but unless you possessed the qualities that I wished for, you would never have gained that title.”

Harry did not feel any less confused.  “But then, why not just never pick a Master, since it’s your choice anyway?  Why willingly submit to someone when you can choose to be free?”

Death gave him a long, assessing look, and Harry resisted the urge to pull his knees to his chest and curl into himself.  It was as though his very soul was being evaluated, though for what, he wasn’t sure.

“I have existed for millennia, Harry.  Can you imagine what that means?  Wandering through lands, watching as rock erodes and trees grow, and human beings slowly emerge and evolve?  Can you envisage the civilizations upon civilizations that have developed and flourished, only to slaughter one another and fall to ruin, time and time again?” 

He looked on into a distance only he could see, gaze heavy with the weight of endless centuries. 

Suddenly, Harry _knew_. His very soul was gripped by the conviction that this being – this timeless, transcendental, celestial being – could be none other than Death himself. 

“Do you know how many legions of souls I have guided onwards and am doing so at this very moment, even as I sit here talking with you? More often than not, they are tearful and inconsolable, lamenting their lost family and friends. Except for the truly rare soul, like Severus,” Death’s lips twitched upwards, “who managed to berate and threaten me in the same breath.” 

His sigh seemed to come from the very depths of his being. “And all the while, I am utterly alone, fulfilling my duty without fail for countless aeons with no one at my side.” He slumped tiredly in his seat. “Is it wrong of me to long for companionship on my journeys, Harry?  Would you condemn me to such an existence for the innumerable years to come?”

Harry’s mouth was agape at this narrative as his mind tried in vain to grasp such an unfathomable concept.  Realizing just how much of a child he must seem from Death’s ancient perspective, his face flamed, barely able to meet the other’s eyes.

Hoping he hadn’t offended the unearthly immortal, Harry could barely stutter as he waved his arms wildly.  “That’s – no!  No, of course not!  I’m – I just meant, I mean, why me?  I’m really nothing special, unless you buy into all that Boy Who Lived drivel, which probably isn’t all that impressive to you anyway since it’s not like you can die, and it was my mum who protected me in the first place.  I’m sure there were many people far more deserving, and you could probably have worked with Fate to create a situation in which they owned all the Hallows. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, Harry, there are so many virtues you personify that make you such a desirable friend." He chuckled fondly as Harry's cheeks reddened further. "But I shall not persist, for fear you may spontaneously combust. Suffice to say that I am relieved to see my search finally come to an end.”

“I – I see.”  He really, really didn’t.  However, he certainly wasn’t going to make a habit of contradicting all-powerful deities any more than necessary. 

“So, er, would I have any, uh, duties?  As Master of Death, I mean?  Not that I think you aren’t able to do your job,” he hurriedly added, glancing furtively at the other man.

The delighted laughter that spilled forth left him even more disconcerted. He’d had his fair share of absurd situations, but even the day he found that he was a wizard hadn’t been so fraught with incredulity.

Still chuckling, Death wiped mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes. “You are, I believe the saying goes, just along for the ride.  Nothing more, nothing less.  However, you will likely pick up tricks of the trade, as my duties are of rather an unending nature.”

Seeing the wizard looking only marginally less confused, Death smiled ruefully.  “I realise I have left you much to contemplate, Harry, and for that I do apologise. However, before I leave you to your thoughts, there are two transactions I propose you undertake that will help you better understand your current situation among the living. First, go to Gringotts on your birthday, and take the sword of Gryffindor with you.  Return it as you promised; you would do well not to have the goblins as your enemies.” 

A crafty look reminiscent of the Weasley twins entered his eyes. “Secondly, your Lordship rings are collecting dust in their vaults, which is absolutely no use to anyone, least of all you.  Claim them, learn to use them.”  His mouth curled up in glee.  “I think you will find it a useful and gratifying endeavour.”

Harry sighed despondently.  It appeared he wasn’t going to be able to just ignore the existence of the goblins for eternity.  After the debacle with Hufflepuff’s cup, they were going to wring him of every galleon they possibly could, he just knew it. 

And what in Merlin’s name were Lordship rings?

Standing up, Death clapped Harry’s shoulder comfortingly. “Well, my break has come to an end.  No rest for the wicked, after all,” he grinned mischievously.  “Deaths to plan, souls to collect.  I will see you soon, Harry, and in the meantime, take heed of my suggestions. Everything will turn out for the best.”

And in the next instant, the man vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been 2 weeks, and as promised, I have an update! Yes, I know, just like my previous fic, Death has a major role. He (it?) is just such an intriguing character with so much potential for development, and I love to play around with his relationship to Harry. However, I will say that unlike my oneshot, this will not be a Harry/Death fic. In fact, as of a few days ago, I couldn't have told you what the pairing was going to be because I myself didn't know; now I'll just keep that knowledge to myself (you'll find out eventually!).
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Your opinions are valued :)


	3. Chapter 3

A bony hand was shaking his shoulder.  “Jus’ five more minutes, R – ”  Harry bolted up, gasping for breath. Had it been a dream? Surely he hadn’t met Death. He scoffed at himself – he was going absolutely bonkers, he was.  

A prickly burning drew his attention to his chest just in time to see the black outline of the Deathly Hallows sinking into the skin above his heart.  Looking closer, he realised that a faded imprint of pink lines remained.

 He exhaled slowly.  So, not a dream then.  Fuck.

“ ... Master will get up!”  

Turning to his left, he saw a stern looking Kreacher with hands on his hips.   

“Kreacher!  What are you doing here?  The room wasn’t supposed to …”

Kreacher pursed his lips disapprovingly, as though Harry was being purposely obtuse.  “Kreacher is a house elf.  Master needs to be up, so Kreacher wakes him.  They are searching for Master, oh yes, all over Mistress Hogwarts and in the forest of forbidden things.”

Why were people looking for him?  After this hellish year, surely they understood his need for a rest.  Harry cast a worried gaze at Kreacher, who looked entirely too smug for his comfort.

“Er, Kreacher, how long have I been asleep?”

“Master was sleeping for three days,” Kreacher answered primly.

Harry gaped at him.  “Three days!  Kreacher, why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”  He scrambled out of the bed, rummaging in the bedside drawers for something to wear. “Ron and Hermione are probably insane with worry, and Rita Skeeter has likely already written an article about how I’ve gone and offed myself because I couldn’t handle the heartbreak of so many lost lives or some such rot.” 

He swivelled back around to Kreacher in frustration, still in his boxers.  “And where in Merlin’s name have my clothes gone?”

Kreacher looked decidedly unimpressed.  “Master will first take a bath and not look like he was rolling around in the mud like an undisciplined dog.  Then Kreacher will bring Master clothes that are befitting his station and won’t cover three people like a tent.  Master will then address important matters that should not have been left this long,” he scolded, as though it was Harry’s fault that he hadn’t been woken up earlier.

Harry couldn’t decide whether to be cross or amused. “Er, right.  I’ll just go take a shower then, shall I?”

A door appeared in the far corner in agreement.

He snorted, patting the wall as he headed into the bathroom. “Alright, my Lady, I can take a hint.”

The water was already pouring out at exactly the right temperature when he closed the door behind him.  Stepping under the shower, he let out an appreciative groan. When was the last time he had been able to take the time to enjoy a hot wash?  He tilted his face upwards into the head of the shower, eyelashes fluttering as the water beat soothingly against his skin. There was only one bottle of soap in front of him; the Room obviously knew his tastes very well. He hummed contentedly as he lathered himself, leisurely massaging his sore muscles.  Weeks upon weeks of dirt and grime flowed off him and swirled down the drain.

As he carefully untangled the curls of hair around his neck, he realized that he had a lot of things to consider now.  Voldemort was gone, and this time he was never coming back.  What was he supposed to do now?  Would Hogwarts continue to be open next year, or even until the end of this year?  Surely the N.E.W.Ts were not going to proceed; Hermione would be the only seventh year to pass. 

And what was it that Death – and wasn’t that a god-awful can of worms he didn’t want to open – had told him to do?  Contact Gringotts?  He grimaced.  Well, it was a starting point, albeit an unpleasant one.  Hermione would have to tell him what he needed to do to grovel – er, make amends with the goblins.  Somehow he doubted that they would have taken his deliberately ambiguous wording quite the same way that he had meant it.

The water petered out, sensing he had come to a decision. A pop sounded behind him and Harry turned before promptly covering his bits, scandalized.

“Kreacher!  What are you doing in here?” 

Kreacher stood holding out a towel and a pile of folded clothes. “Master is finished with his wash so Kreacher is bringing him presentable garments.  These are old Master’s fifth year clothes.” He fixed his bulbous eyes accusatorily on Harry, as though it was his fault.  “Master will not fit bigger robes until he eats! Kreacher will do his duty and make sure that Master is healthy and eats every meal on time.” 

“Wait, these are Regulus’s old clothes?”  Harry was slightly taken aback; surely Kreacher hadn’t changed so much as to disturb the sanctity of his beloved old Master’s precious things.

Kreacher’s eyes darted to the side and back up at Harry, before turning his head away and grumbling, “Master’s brat godfather wore them when he still lived at the Black family manor.  Ungrateful swine, what a disappointment he was to my poor old Mistress.  Not fit to carry the Black name, always going against the old traditions and values.” Kreacher sniffed, before adding, “And then he broke Master’s heart, he did, when he went and died. Could never do anything properly.”

The irritation that had been bubbling up dissolved just as quickly. Kreacher was rather endearing in that grumpy way of his.  

Harry turned his attention back to the robes in his hands. Running his fingers carefully over the fine cloth, Harry felt an overwhelming awe.  Sirius – brave, brash, _caring_ Sirius – had worn these once, had walked in them, talked in them, sat in them, maybe even danced in them. 

Tears filled his eyes with alarming speed, and he blinked them back furiously.  He would _not_ become a bawling wreck over Sirius’s old – over twenty years old – clothes, of all things.  He would _get a fucking grip_ , and he would wear them with pride.

Kreacher diligently started at the opposite wall, pretending not to notice his conflicting emotions.

“Thank you, Kreacher.”  Harry was pleased to find that his voice was, if a bit softer than usual, more or less steady.  “I know you didn’t like Sirius,” and wasn’t that an understatement, “so what you have done means even more to me.  I really appreciate it, Kreacher.”

Kreacher shifted back and forth on his feet, looking supremely uncomfortable.  “Kreacher is only doing his duty to his Master.  Kreacher lives to serve the noble house of Black, and Master will not drown in filthy rags, so Kreacher gets him clothes that fit.”

Harry smiled indulgently at the old elf.  “Well, thank you for doing your duty, then.”

Kreacher gave a jerky nod before shuffling out, muttering in a not-quite undertone.  “Master is too soft for his own good.  He needs to enforce a strong presence, not thank Kreacher.  Master will get himself killed like old Master Regulus, and then where will poor Kreacher be?” 

He was still muttering to himself as the door closed behind him.

Towelling himself quickly, Harry pulled on the plain yet obviously well-made grey shirt and black trousers.  The midnight blue robes twisted elegantly and attached themselves to his shirt as soon as they were thrown over his shoulders. 

Harry could barely recognize his reflection.  Gone was the scrawny and ungainly boy of Little Whinging with the last vestiges of baby fat clinging to his cheeks. Sometime during the last year, a slim, hardy young man had taken his place, with a firm backbone that portrayed more surety and confidence in his skin than ever before.

As he admired his almost regal countenance in the mirror, an unshakable resolve took hold of him.  He was a Black, and from the way Kreacher rhapsodized about the family, being a part of it signified a certain station in the wizarding world. Despite their entrenchment in Dark Magic and ideals of pureblood supremacy, had had their share of honourable witches and wizards.  After all, Sirius was a Black, as was Regulus, and Andromeda and Narcissa were both Blacks by birth.  The Potters too must have been prominent members of society; if nothing else, his dad had been an Auror and his mother had been one of the brightest minds of her age. He was also a Peverell, since the Invisibility Cloak had ended up in his hands after being supposedly passed down from father to son.  _The_ Peverells, who bargained with _Death_ , and were so famous for their ingenuity that their story was one that every wizarding child knew. 

Yet these families were now collecting dust in old yellowed parchment, remembered only with a vague notoriety of depravity and death. He would bring them back to the forefront of everyone’s minds, would restore them to the glory and honour that they deserve.  He owed it to his ancestors _and_ himself to try.

With a decisive nod he swirled out of the bathroom, only to stop in his tracks. In front of him, Kreacher was bustling about a plain wooden desk, arranging what looked like letters from the entire wizarding world.  There had to be hundreds in the teetering piles, and an impressive feat of magic held them in place, looking more unstable than the Burrow. 

“Kreacher?” he squeaked.  “What – ”  He gestured nervously at the looming stacks.  “What is all that post doing in here?”

He swore the house elf smirked, the evil … creature. “This is Master’s post from well-wishers, thanking him for defeating the Dark Lord. There are also gifts,” he pointed to a small mountain to the left of the desk, “for the Man Who Conquered. Would Master like to open them now?”

Harry’s mind was screaming at him to flee, but his feet seemed to be rooted to the spot.  “Er, not at the moment, no.  Maybe later?” he added hesitantly.  Hah, not on his fucking life. 

Kreacher harrumphed.  “Well, Master needs to eat,” he said, fixing a disturbingly gleaming gaze on Harry, “so Kreacher will bring Master his lunch.”

Harry slowly let out a breath, staring at the spot where Kreacher had been.  Food. That was good. Determinedly turning his back on the towers of doom, he headed to the door.  While Kreacher brought him his meal, he had to find Ron and Hermione.  Both of them were probably imagining all sorts of horrible things, but hopefully they hadn’t panicked (too much) yet. 

A huff of laughter escaped him as soon as he stepped out of the Room of Requirement.  There, dozing tiredly against each other on the floor just beside the door were his two best friends.  He felt a surge of affection at the sight. 

Their fingers were linked together and a lock of Hermione’s bushy hair was caught in Ron’s mouth.  They had gotten a change of clothes at some point, but judging by the exhaustion on their faces they hadn’t managed much else. 

“Ron?  Hermione?” Harry whispered, touching their shoulders gently.  Hermione’s head jerked up, knocking hard into Ron’s chin. 

“Bloody ‘ell, ‘Mione, _ow_! What was tha’ for?” he yelled through his fingers which were clutching his jaw frantically.

But Hermione was staring up at Harry in shock, before jumping to her feet.  Harry had barely a second’s warning before her flyaway hair was in his face and his breath was being squeezed out of him.  “Harry! Oh, Harry, we were so worried! Ron and I looked all over the castle for you!  We even got the DA to help, and no one could find you! How could you just leave us without telling us where you were?  You could’ve been kidnapped, or stuck behind some rubble somewhere!" She reached up and smacked his arm repeatedly. "Don’t. Ever. Do. That. Again!”

Harry stared at her dumbfoundedly, jolting when an arm slung over his shoulder.  Ron grinned lopsidedly at him.  “Let us know before you go raring off into the unknown, yeah?  We were going out of our minds with worry, mate. It was only when we tracked Kreacher down to the kitchens that we found out that you were in here.”

Harry broke out of his stupor and chuckled.  “Kreacher, that scheming house elf, I _told_ him you’d be worried!” He shook his head. “I guess I know why he decided I could take a shower first.”  Stepping out of their hold and grabbing both their wrists, he dragged them into the Room. 

A cushy sofa appeared just inside and he pushed them into it, smiling as Ron’s arm automatically wound around Hermione.  Eyeing them critically, he asked, “You okay?”

“We’re both fine, mate,” Ron assured. 

“And your family?  How’s Ginny?  And Bill?” He swallowed hard.  “And – and George?”

Ron gave a watery smile.  “Everyone’s still grieving, but we’ll be alright.”  He snorted.  “Didn’t help that you up and disappeared as well.  ‘Sides, it’s us that should be upset, seeing as you’re the one that went up against _Voldemort_!”

Hermione inhaled sharply and jumped up again, glaring furiously at Harry. “Harry James Potter! We told you not to give yourself up to Voldemort and what do you do?  Walk into the Forbidden Forest and surrender!  Did you think for a moment about what we would feel, what we did feel?”  She wiped the tears off her face hotly.  “You were just lying there limp in Hagrid’s arms.  We thought you had died!” she choked out in a horrified voice, falling back into Ron’s arms and shaking in distress.

Harry looked beseechingly at Ron, but he just shrugged his shoulders. “You had us terrified, Harry,” he spoke softly.  “We were of half a mind to just give up at that point.  All that work we did, and then you were just gone.  Neville was the reason we continued, when he sliced the head off that bloody snake.  We knew that all the Horcruxes were destroyed then, that he was mortal again. And then when you appeared out of nowhere, I thought I’d been hit by a Confundus Charm.” Ron gazed intently at him. “Suddenly he was dead, and you were standing over his body, looking so grim that I wasn’t sure we’d won.”

Harry struggled to find the words to describe that moment adequately and failed miserably.

“It didn’t feel like winning,” he said finally. 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione whispered tenderly.  She gave him a sad smile, before visibly shaking herself.  “So, what did you want us for, Harry?”

“What, I can’t be concerned about my best friends who had just been through a _war_ with me?”

Hermione rolled her eyes at his affronted tone as Ron sniggered. “Yes, you can, but that’s not the only reason you sought us out today.”  She raised her eyebrow at him in a ‘Well?’ motion.

He shook his head in amusement.  There was really no point trying to get anything past her.

“I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand I made it! Apologies if you find any inconsistencies and/or errors, and please let me know! I literally just finished writing the last third of the chapter, but I'll go through it again tomorrow (after I catch some z's). I realized that I forgot to mention that I'm not British, so if some of the dialogue doesn't sound quite right, that's one possible reason (of many).
> 
> A very introspective chapter, I know, but I find the insight into Harry's thoughts necessary. As for the story, this will be a gradual build-up on both the romantic and plot fronts. There's just something special about that kind of natural development :) I referred to the title 'Man Who Conquered', which, as far as I know, is not actually in the books. Whichever smart fan coined that phrase gets the credit.
> 
> Finally, thanks for the reviews & follows! I didn't truly understand what authors meant by reviews being motivational until I got them myself - they're really a kick in the pants!


	4. Chapter 4

“So, what now?” Harry asked, absentmindedly playing with a loose thread on the patchwork armchair provided by the Room of Requirement.

He had spent the last couple of hours with Ron and Hermione, discussing the moments leading up to his ‘death’ and the events that followed. The explanation regarding his meeting with Dumbledore and then Death was an interesting one, to say the least. He had barely opened his mouth before Hermione had motioned for him to wait, sticking her arm (and shoulder) into her moleskin purse and brandishing a pen and battered purple notebook like the instruments of torture that they were.  She drew up a list of notes with a manic fervour, clarifying certain points (“Death is male?”) and going over others (‘Dumbledore avoided telling Harry why his parents didn’t meet him at King’s Gross instead’) with a neon pink highlighter.

Harry had decided that he valued his life too much to point out the frightening likeness to a certain beetle-shaped reporter.

Ron, after choking on his sandwich, had simply shaken his head in wonder and expressed his deepest sympathies (“Better you than me, mate”), and proceeded to watch Hermione’s thorough interrogation with unconcealed admiration.

At Harry’s query, they exchanged a quick glance before Ron spoke, each word measured carefully.  “Harry, how sure are you that Dumbledore was on your side?  Don’t go biting my head off, I’m just thinking out loud is all, hear me out.”  There was a look of complete concentration on his face, usually only seen when he was in front of his worn chess set.  “There’re some things I’ve noticed that just aren’t adding up, not if he truly meant the best for you.  I mean, just look at this last year.  We traipsed up and down the whole bloody island with no clue what we were looking for, and all we had for help was a kids’ book, an old snitch and a fancy _Nox_.  And in sixth year, I suppose it didn’t occur to him to just _tell_ you about Voldemort and his Horcrux theory instead of dragging it on for an entire year?”

Somewhere during his tirade, Ron had ended up on his feet, pacing furiously back and forth with hands tightly balled into fists.

“But what really gets to me is that every single year ends with you just hanging on to your life by the skin of your teeth.  Every.  Single.  Fucking. Year!”  Harry jumped in his seat at Ron’s sudden roar. “You’ve had me and Hermione, yeah, but Dumbledore was utterly barmy if he thought two kids could make sure that another kid doesn’t risk his life in some mad scheme and die!”  Ron ran a hand over his face dejectedly, running out of steam.  “There’s something very wrong with this picture, Harry.”

Seeing their miserable faces, Hermione corralled them over to the now elongated couch, shifting them so that Harry was in the centre of the huddle.  Ron’s arm anchored him solidly and Hermione tucked into Harry’s other side, resting her head on his shoulder.

Harry melted into their embrace, breathing in the reassuring familiarity.

“Harry, you know Ron's right,” Hermione murmured, threading her fingers comfortingly through his.  “There are some things that, headmaster or not, Dumbledore had no authority to dictate.  The first one is his placement of you with the Dursleys.”  Harry immediately stiffened; he could happily live the rest of his life without ever sparing them another thought.  “He was your parents’ headmaster and the leader of the Order, but neither position bestowed him with the license to choose where you live.  And if he was a close friend of your family, he could have visited you occasionally, at the very least.

“Then, there’re your Hogwarts years.  I made a list, you know,” she laughed sheepishly. “The night before you found Gryffindor’s sword, that last night before moving to the Forest of Dean, you yelled at me – ”

Ron snorted, and Harry elbowed him in retaliation.

“ – about Dumbledore asking you to sacrifice so much and trust him blindly, that he never truly loved you.  At first, I thought that you were just taking out your frustrations at me.  I told myself that I understood, that you were given such an immense task and none of us had any answers, so you were lashing out at the hopeless situation. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that you were right.  Dumbledore asked you to risk your life over and over during the last seven years, and he always turned up just in time to wrap things up and feed you a few entirely unsatisfying titbits of information to suit his purpose.  And when I wrote out every life-threatening situation you’d been in,” she choked, squeezing his hand painfully, “I almost ran back out of the tent just to check that you were still alive and breathing.” 

She sat up and cupped his face in her hands, gazing at him solemnly. “Harry James Potter, it is a miracle that we haven’t already had to attend your funeral, and you know it.” Harry was faintly aware of Ron at his back, clutching him to his chest desperately.  “In fact, of all of us, you were the one that was always a bit wary of Dumbledore, weren’t you.  You always were very intuitive after all, not to mention absolutely brilliant …”

Harry eyed her strangely.  “Hermione, I think you’re confusing me with you.”

Her eyes glinted at him determinedly.  “Harry, I know you pretend to be less smart than you are.  You’ve been doing it since at least fourth year, but probably from the start.” 

Harry had an inkling of where this was going, and he didn’t like it. Hermione took a deep breath as if to brace herself, and forged on.  “I found a Potions essay in your trunk sometime before the first task on Everlasting Elixirs, and that was part of the sixth year syllabus!”

Harry gulped.  What could he say to justify that?  And it was a _Potions_ essay, out of all the ones he had done. 

“I swear I wasn’t trying to snoop, Harry,” she added hastily, seeing his face cloud over.  “I was just looking for some ink because I’d run out!  But even Professor Snape would have given you at least an ‘Exceeds Expectations’, it was that good, and I just – I had _no idea_ you were so ahead and I didn’t know how to ask you, or even _if_ I should ask you about it. And then we were busy with the Triwizard Tournament and I never got around to it anyway.” She looked at him pleadingly, the words rushing out of her in a flood, stumbling over each other in her hurry. “I never knew how to approach you with it later, but I always wondered, when I saw your ‘Poors’ and ‘Acceptables’, how many of them could actually be ‘Outstandings’.”

At any other time, Harry would have laughed at her expression, torn as it was between wary nervousness and open curiosity.  As it was, he could only stare at her speechlessly.

Unexpectedly, it was Ron’s voice that broke the silence. “It’s something to do with those bloody Dursleys, isn’t it.”

Harry stiffened minutely before slumping back against Ron’s chest. It was unfair how well they knew him.  Jerking his head in an aborted movement, he said, “It was – initially.  The Dursleys certainly never encouraged me to excel.” He snorted.  “They refused to believe that a freak of nature like myself could be better than their precious Dudley at anything. If my marks were higher, obviously I had cheated and it just further proved that I was a lazy good-for-nothing.” Hermione’s eyes were so horrified and pitying that he was forced to look away. 

“So I started to just barely pass in my classes, deliberately sabotaging my work.  Of course, this just cemented their opinion that I was incompetent and worthless,” he spat bitterly.  “And then I got my Hogwarts letter.  Being a wizard was a dream come true, but that first day in Diagon Alley shattered any hopes I had of starting over with a blank slate.  People were hungry for a piece of the Boy Who Lived, the awe-inspiring hero with the famous lightning scar, whose adventures were documented in books I’d never heard about.  Even the Hogwarts professors singled me out, whether it was Snape’s sneering insults or Flitwick’s over-enthusiastic encouragement.  So I thought, why bother?  Why not just continue as I was? It wasn’t all bad – I had friends, and magic, and most of the people around me didn’t hate me.” Ron made a dismayed noise at the back of his throat as he tightened his arms again. 

“There was no one I wanted to impress anyway, so I was content to coast along.  Until the first Quidditch match.  That’s when I really understood, I mean.  I knew that not everyone was happy with me.  After all, Voldemort did have followers - he wasn’t a one-man army - and Hagrid had already told me that Voldemort himself was probably not dead.  But it didn’t hit me until I was dangling off my broomstick fifty feet in the air that I had to know more, _learn_ more, about magic, about the wizarding world – anything at all to help me survive because I was still a target.  Almost every night after that I spent a few hours under my cloak reading in the library, or exploring the castle and talking to portraits, or practicing spells and curses in an empty classroom.  Now I’ve got a Forever-Filling Folder with hundreds of essays on every topic imaginable, from goblin rebellions to Sectumsempra.”

He looked up at the ceiling tiredly, his head resting on Ron's shoulder.  “And still I managed to be so _stupid_.  What good was any of it, when I _still_ accepted help in the Triwizard Tournament from a Death Eater, and I _still_ got Sirius killed, and I was  _still_  played like a puppet by Dumbledore!”  He brushed back the sudden tears furiously.

“And there you have it.  Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and an absolute fucking failure.” 

He bowed his head, unable to meet their eyes.  Would they still think of themselves as his friends? Were they disgusted by his deceit and inadequacy?  He certainly wouldn’t blame them if they were.

Freckled hands turned him around to face Ron.  “ _Harry_.” There was so much anguish in his voice that Harry had to look up, only to flinch.  Ron was staring at him, face carved in despair. “Harry, we would never _ever_ think _anything_ like that.  Half my family is alive because of you, and the rest of magical Britain owes you a bloody massive debt as well.  But more importantly, you’re our _friend_ , Harry.  Our scrawny, mostly-blind, sarcastic, pig-headed friend with a hero-complex the size of a bloody dragon. If you told us that you were actually Voldemort, we would still love you.”  Ron’s eyes were boring into him with an intense affection, before frowning slightly.  “Er, you’re not, are you?”

Hermione, who was leaning her forehead against Harry’s back, gave a watery chuckle, her tears leaving a damp patch on his shirt.

Harry’s heart felt like it was about to burst with relief. He still had them, his best friends, the two people more important to him than anything else in the world. Basking in the warmth, he gripped their hands tightly in his, trying to infuse all the love he felt into them. This was his family, the brother and sister of his soul.

 

* * *

  

By the time they had eaten and made immediate plans, night had fallen. 

They had decided that the first issue to address was Hogwarts. To that end, they needed to speak with Professor McGonagall.  The castle was in ruins, and a lot of work would be needed to bring it back to its former magnificence.  Additionally, since they were technically dropouts (Harry had never heard Hermione sound more scandalised), they would presumably be doing seventh year again, and from what they had gathered about the education of the previous year, most of the other seventh years would need to do the same. 

Hermione also needed to retrieve her parents from Australia. Harry and Ron, of course, had none of it when she proposed to go by herself.  With luck, they could reverse the Memory Charm and bring them back to Britain in the next few days.

Gringotts was another priority, not least because Death had advised it.  Ron hopefully suggested just owling the sword of Gryffindor to the goblins, not wanting to deal with the ‘nasty bloodthirsty brutes’, but elected to say no more when Hermione sent him a pointed glare.  The goblins would also provide a starting point for Harry’s quest to learn more about his ancestors.

Having formed the outline of a plan, they turned to tackle the mountainous slopes of letters.  They even managed to make a dent in it, but post was coming in at such an alarming rate that Harry felt like he would still be opening them when he was fifty. Most were messages of congratulations and gratitude for the Man Who Conquered – Rita had written a stunningly evocative and impassioned piece for the _Prophet_ – as well as marriage proposals and death threats, all of which were arranged into separate piles.

While they quietly organised the post, a silver light glided into the room.  As the weasel began speaking, the three exchanged sheepish glances, tucking their wands back into their pockets.

“Hermione, thank you for your Patronus.  I trust that you and the boys are alright. Molly and I would very much like to see you three for dinner at Muriel’s house.  I’ll pick you up at the Burrow in ten minutes, it’s not far from there.  Be safe.” The Patronus faded out of sight.

“You sent Dad a message?” Ron asked guiltily, standing up and stretching.

Hermione rolled her eyes and set aside the letter in her hand. “Of course, Ron. Harry had already disappeared, there was no need to add us to the tally of missing people and send your family into further panic. I told him that we found Harry, so they should be less worried.”

Harry rolled his shoulders and stood up with a groan. “Well, I guess we’d better get going.  Kreacher?”

The house elf appeared with a crack.  He eyed Ron and Hermione distastefully before turning to Harry.  “Master needs something?”

“Yes, Kreacher.  Could you move these letters to Grimmauld Place?  Try to keep them organised the way they are.” He tried to think of anything else, before adding, “And let me know if you need help.”

Kreacher looked affronted at the very idea.  “Kreacher will take the letters to the manor himself. Would Master like his dinner?”

“We’ll be eating with the Weasleys today.  Feel free to rest, Kreacher, you’ve done well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Kreacher bowed and popped out. 

“Mate, I know you like him and all, but he is one creepy bugger,” Ron said feelingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2500 words of shameless trio glompfest is what this is, but I can't bring myself to regret it. There's something very special about the bond that they have, and each year just seems to bring them that much closer.
> 
> Please review! :)


	5. Chapter 5

The weeks after the battle passed in a sort of numb chaos, as though Harry was at a standstill while the world blurred past around him.

Despite the plans that they had made, his interactions with Ron and Hermione were restricted to hurried snatches of conversation whenever they had a few moments together. Ron was staying with the rest of the Weasleys, spending most of his time sequestered in his Aunt Muriel's house with George and, oddly enough, Percy. The Grangers, upon having their memories restored, were extremely vocal about their displeasure regarding Hermione's actions, and informed Harry and Ron that their daughter was under house arrest 'for the foreseeable future'.

In the meantime, Harry learned firsthand what the aftermath of a war truly meant.

He was barely aware of being led to funeral after funeral, each one wearing down on his spirit a little more. Every coffin lowered into the ground felt like another accusation, another family he had failed. Running on autopilot as he did, days bled into each other in a sea of grief and platitudes.

Fred's funeral was a startling change. A throng of redheads had amassed for the ceremony, peppered with other Hogwarts students from all years. He had even caught a glimpse of Oliver Wood and the rest of the old Quidditch team, patting George's back in solidarity. However, Harry found himself observing from the side with a curious sense of detachment as family and friends cried and laughed alike, raising their voices in tribute to the mischievous twin.

A multitude of trials followed the funerals, the public eager for retribution and vengeful justice. He forced himself to attend every one of them, giving pensieve memories and Veritaserum-induced testimonies wherever necessary. The truth serum may have been tasteless, but he had become increasingly familiar with the bitter aftertaste that lingered hours after another Death Eater was convicted.

Later, the only moments of clarity he would be able to recall revolved around little Teddy. It was as though a switch was flipped on inside him when the distraught baby was placed in his arms, conveying his confusion in the only way he knew.

"… has invited us."

Teddy shifted slightly on his lap and Harry mentally shook himself, looking up at Andromeda standing by the fireplace. "Sorry, Andy, who's inviting us?"

"Cissy, dear. We simply must attend."

Andromeda, or Andy, as she insisted he call her, had simply turned up at Grimmauld Place one morning, assaulting a gobsmacked Harry with a plate of waffles when he entered the kitchen. Thereupon, a mutual understanding was reached and never spoken of again, wherein she bribed him with Teddy to perform his daily routines and schemed with Kreacher to ply him with as much food as possible.

Her eyes narrowed in warning when Harry's mouth opened in protest. "Harry, you have not left the house once in the last two weeks. Molly still asks after you whenever I see her, Hermione and Ron are beside themselves with worry trying to get through to you, and Ginny is on her fifth boyfriend in as many weeks after you refused to get back with her. This apathy is not healthy, dear." She sighed softly, before giving him a fond smile. "Besides, Cissy is not about to allow mere grief get in the way of relaying her gratitude to you, it would be too plebeian. She insists that you and I are to be at Malfoy manor tomorrow for lunch. And we _will_ be going," she added sternly.

Harry rubbed a hand wearily down his face. "I would get mobbed the minute I stepped outside the house, Andy, you know that. Godric knows I couldn't step into the Leaky without being surrounded, and it's only worse now with the Order of Merlin they've seen fit to pin on me." He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"But you're right. This isn't healthy, and I'm no use sitting here moping around. I'll talk to Ron and Hermione soon, I promise." He looked at her careworn face, softened by the wisps of grey hair at her temples. "I _am_ sorry, you know. On top of Teddy, you've had to take care of me when you've lost your husband and your daughter an–"

He was suddenly enfolded into a warm embrace, his face pressed into her stomach as hands brushing his hair gently.

"Nonsense. Everyone copes differently, and it has been a pleasure looking after the two of you. Now with my St. Mungo's duties on hold, it gives an old woman something to do, and I'm grateful that you have allowed us into your life." She pulled back with her hands on his shoulders and kissed his forehead. "However, you know very well that you need not leave the house to Floo or even Firecall the Weasleys. I will not ask that you go there yet – I don't think the inherent chaos will be conducive to you in the least. However, Narcissa and Draco are of a much calmer bearing, and you _are_ ready for them. You need to ease back into society, dear, and this will be an adequate start."

With another pat on his head and a kiss to Teddy's cheek, she swept out of the room.

Hugging the sleeping Teddy close to his chest, Harry's thoughts swirled in his head. Was Andy correct? Was he truly ready to face the world again, especially the _Malfoys_?

 

* * *

 

Harry tumbled through the Floo, barely managing to stay on his feet.

"Graceful as always I see, Potter," a voice drawled. Harry's fingers were halfway to his wand before he realised what he was doing. Andy was right; he definitely needed to adjust to being around other people. And it wasn't going to happen if he was throwing hexes at every little twitch and sound.

Draco Malfoy looked just as Harry would have expected. He was as blond and pointy as ever, and exuded the same air of self-importance. Dressed in casual blue robes and leaning against the wall, he was clearly at home in the extravagant manor. His customary sneer was absent, however, and that was enough to stop the scathing retort at the tip of his tongue.

"And I see you haven't lost your talent for stating the obvious, Malfoy," he replied mildly, raising an eyebrow.

Narcissa Malfoy glided into the drawing room. "Draco, Mr. Potter is a welcome guest and you will treat him as such." Her voice held promises of dire consequences if he didn't heed her warning.

The Floo turned green once more, and Andromeda stepped out gracefully without a speck of dust on her robes. "Cissy, it is wonderful to see you again," she said, eyes glowing with affection.

"And you, Andy." They embraced warmly before Narcissa turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, it is a pleasure to have you in our home, and under much more auspicious circumstances, I'm sure you will agree."

Harry shuddered inwardly. All these formalities were bringing forth memories of Aunt Petunia's overly saccharine greetings to her dinner guests. "Harry please, Mrs. Malfoy. Mr. Potter makes me feel like I'm about to get a detention." He was amused to see Malfoy visibly pressing his lips together to hold back a snide comment as he walked over.

"And of course you must call me Narcissa, or Cissy. We are family, after all. And I'm sure Draco would say the same." She frowned pointedly at her son.

He looked like he had swallowed a vial of Skele-Gro. "Of course, Pot– Harry."

Harry looked down, for fear of laughing at Mal– Draco's disgruntled face, and was reminded of the package in his hand. He thrust it unceremoniously at Draco. "Here, it was your birthday yesterday, wasn't it?"

Draco eyed him oddly. "How did you know?"

"It was on the Black family tapestry." Harry fidgeted nervously under his cool gaze. "Well, go on then. Open it."

Draco snorted, but opened the box obligingly. Beside him, Narcissa gasped quietly, while he stared speechlessly at the contents. Harry twisted his fingers together, unable to take the silence. "I know it's not technically a gift, since it was already yours. But I only remembered your birthday when Andy told me about the invitation, and there was no time to get you anything else, so – "

"Th-thank you, Harry." Draco's eyes were suspiciously moist as he caressed the wand. "I didn't know if I would ever see it again."

Harry looked at him blankly. "It's yours, isn't it? Why wouldn't you see it again? I mean, I would've given it to you earlier, but it completely slipped my mind …"

Narcissa shook her head, glancing at the still awestruck Draco before smiling kindly at Harry. "What Draco means is that it is very rare for a wand to be returned to its primary owner once it has been won by someone else. You have done him a very great favour, Harry."

"Oh." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, rocking back on his heels awkwardly. At least now he understood Andy's amusement when he had expressed his doubts. "Er, glad to help, then." He already had a wand of his own – two, if he counted the Elder Wand – so what was he supposed to do with another one, anyway?

He was never going to understand the wizarding world.

 

* * *

 

Lunch was a quiet affair.

Draco barely took his eyes off the wand he had placed reverently beside his plate, except to dart occasional speculative glances at Harry. Narcissa and Andy conversed in low tones, both looking more content than Harry had ever seen. Harry, for his part, tried not to make a fool of himself as he focused on using the proper fork for the proper dish.

"… I hope Lord Black will not be disowning us from the Black family?" Narcissa had raised her voice to be heard across the table.

Andy cleared her throat delicately. "Harry?"

Harry looked up from his dessert in confusion at the three expectant faces. Did they want his opinion on the matter? "Er, I hope so too? Do you need any help convincing him?" He racked his brain, trying to remember who else was on the Black family tree. "Actually, isn't Draco Lord Black now? Unless it's Teddy?"

He turned enquiringly to Andy, who was frozen in her seat in shock. "Andy?" he asked worriedly. Had he committed some weird pureblood faux pas?

She spoke slowly, clearly contemplating something of importance. "Harry, Draco is not Lord Black. You are. Surely you know that Sirius left you everything he had?"

It was Harry's turn to freeze mid-bite. "Did you just say that _I'm_ Lord Black? I know Sirius left me his gold, along with Grimmauld Place and Kreacher, but he also gave me a _Lordship_?"

Andromeda's hands fluttered in an uncharacteristically distressed manner. "Why were you not informed of this earlier? It was clearly stated in his will that you were to be the next Lord Black. Was it not read to you?"

"No, I … No, it was not." At the time, just thinking about his godfather had been painful and he had pushed anything remotely related to him to the back of his mind. Sirius's will had never crossed his mind again.

The frown on her face grew more pronounced. "I was told that you would be taken to Gringotts for a reading as soon as it was safe, by – "

" – Dumbledore," Harry finished flatly. "Of course." Blindsided by the sudden fury that rose within him, he clenched his fist tightly, feeling his nails digging into the skin of his palm. The more that came to light, the plainer it was that Ron was absolutely right. Albus Dumbledore was involved in far too many aspects of his life, even when he was six feet under.

Cutlery rattled on the table, and a few drops of tea sloshed over onto his fist. He really needed to get a better handle on his emotions; it wouldn't do to make the Malfoys redecorate their home twice in as many months. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it stutter out slowly. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sight of three wary faces.  One was on the far side of the dining room, causing him to momentarily forget his anger.

"Draco, what're you doing over there?"

"Following my instincts of self-preservation," he responded wryly. "My day has passed tolerably so far without being skewered by a butter knife, and I would like to keep it that way."

"I wasn't going to stab you with a knife!"

Draco looked at him in disbelief. "Maybe not deliberately, but your temper was legendary at Hogwarts. Even I knew to avoid getting caught in your way when you began imitating a dragon on its warpath. Forgive me if I don't put much stock in your judgement while that black stain still remains on the _enchanted_ ceiling of the Great Hall."

Harry huffed indignantly. The stain wasn't that big; in fact, you could barely see it if you squinted …

Andromeda placed a hand gently on his arm, watching him in concern.

Right, he had things to do. Giving her an abashed smile, he patted her hand reassuringly. "It's alright, Andy. I was planning to sort out some affairs at Gringotts once I turned eighteen, but it appears I can't put it off any longer." His mind was whirling a mile a minute as he thought through the situation. By the looks of it, he would once again be flying by the seat of his pants.

Ron and Hermione would improvise, he knew. After all these years, they were nothing if not adaptable.

"Would you mind terribly if we put off our visit to the Weasleys? I know I agreed to spend some time with Molly and the others today, but there's something I've got to do at Hogwarts."

At her nod, he stood up and turned to their host. "Narcissa, thank you for the lovely lunch. If you hadn't invited us, I would probably still be wallowing despondently in Grimmauld Place and slowly driving Andy mad. It is with regret that I have to cut this meeting short, and I apologise for the discourtesy."

Narcissa's smile was one of grim understanding. "Not at all, dear. I'm sure Andy will keep in touch. Perhaps when we meet next, it will be in the presence of the official Lord Black."

Harry almost laughed outright at her tacit encouragement. He had nearly forgotten that he was speaking to Lucius Malfoy's wife. It was surprisingly comforting to know that he had her full and probably ruthless support.

Giving Andy a peck on her cheek and nodding curtly at Draco, he turned and headed for the Floo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start happening (kind of). Next chapter is probably going to focus on Gringotts. 
> 
> Final exam in 3 days and so much to study - I don't know how I finished writing this. Let me know if you see any errors! And please review - I love hearing your thoughts! :)


	6. Chapter 6

“Mr. Potter!  This is an unexpected surprise.  I trust that all is well?” 

Despite the lines on her face, Minerva McGonagall did not seem to have aged a day since he had first laid eyes on the stern woman as a scrawny, doe-eyed eleven-year-old.  Though he would never make the mistake of calling her affable, she exuded an imperturbable strength that he found as reassuring now as he did then.

He flashed her his most winsome smile.  “Could I spend a few minutes with the Sorting Hat, Professor? I won’t be very long, I promise.”

His first order of business was the sword of Gryffindor. He was quite certain that without some form of peace offering and possibly his entire vault of gold, he was going to be eviscerated by the goblins as soon as he set foot in Gringotts.

Professor McGonagall, or Headmistress McGonagall as she was now, raised her eyebrows, looking supremely unconvinced.  “Alright.  I don’t suppose I will be receiving an explanation for your actions?”

Harry shrugged sheepishly, and Professor McGonagall nodded resignedly, gesturing to the shelf behind her.

He walked around her desk and stood in front of the Sorting Hat. The historic relic had acquired quite a few battle scars during its last foray outside the castle. It was looking markedly more frayed with scratches and loose threads, and a large hole had burned through a portion of the rim.

“Ah, yes, Harry Potter.  Back again I see.  Still not satisfied with my judgement?”

Harry shivered.  Despite not having eyes, there was something about the dark folds of the hat that never failed to make him feel like it was looking right through him, like his deepest secrets and thoughts were being scrutinised.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Professor McGonagall lean back imperceptibly in his direction.  His old Head of House was in for a surprise.

“No, I – I think I understand now.  Not that it really matters anymore that I could have gone either way – ”

“You mistake me.  I could have sorted you into any of the four houses, not just Gryffindor or Slytherin.” Harry heard a soft gasp behind him. “However, as you seemed particularly against the idea of Slytherin, I merely tried to disabuse you of your prejudice and illustrate its benefits.”

“Oh.”  That he could have just as easily been a Hufflepuff or a Ravenclaw was a startling revelation, and it shifted his perception of both himself and his previous years at Hogwarts.  How would it have been among the badgers?   Would they have cheered for him in addition to Cedric at the Triwizard Tournament? And if he had been a Ravenclaw, would he have been able to gain even more knowledge and defeat Voldemort earlier?

“Regardless, I presume that listening to an old hat natter on is not the purpose of your visit?”

He almost smacked himself, as Hermione undoubtedly would have done much earlier into this line of thought.  This was not the time for drowning in hypothetical what ifs and if onlys.  Maybe Voldemort could have been defeated without the cost of a single life, but it was equally likely that he would inadvertently have brought about the destruction of the wizarding world as they knew it. 

“Er, no.  There are some things I need to straighten out at Gringotts …”

“Ah, of course.  I had wondered if I would live – figuratively – to see this day. Sal always did tell Godric that the sword was not meant to be kept on in the school.  Naturally, Godric wouldn’t hear a word of it. High time it was returned, if you ask me.  The goblins are not to be trifled with and hold their grudges for centuries.”

Suddenly, a thunk sounded, and peeking out from under the brim of the hat was the ruby-encrusted gold hilt of the sword of Gryffindor.

“Well, don’t just stand there gawking.  This is what you are here for, is it not?”

Taking it as permission, Harry lifted the hat and slid the sword out from under it.  A throat cleared behind him and he turned around.  He had almost forgotten that Professor McGonagall was still in the office.

 She did not look very impressed.  “Mr. Potter, are you telling me that you are surrendering the sword of Gryffindor” - her eyes darted reflexively at the gleaming sword in his hand - “which has been a part of this school for centuries, to the _goblins_?”

Harry gulped.  “Er, yes?”  He continued on hastily at her wrathful glare.  “It’s not really ours to keep, Professor.  Whatever a goblin makes is considered theirs.  If a goblin-made object was sold to a wizard, they consider it rented and expect it to be returned upon the wizard’s death.  We’ve had it for much longer than we had any right to, really, and now I will be restoring it to its rightful owners.”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the Sorting Hat.

“The boy is right, Minerva.  I have mentioned it to every heir of Gryffindor that has ever been a member of Hogwarts' staff, but they have been far too prideful.” He gave her an admonishing look. “As most Gryffindors tend to be.”

Sniffing, she turned back to Harry.  “Very well, I see that you are not to be deterred. If that is all, Mr. Potter, I wish you luck and expect to see you back in Hogwarts in September.”

He leaned forward interestedly.  “So Hogwarts will be open next year?”

Professor McGonagall sat back down and sighed, suddenly ageing years before his eyes.  “It _must_. Every effort is being made to ensure that the children are able to return without any further delays.” She glanced again at the sword. “Perhaps the goblins will look on us more kindly once they have reclaimed their workmanship.”

 

* * *

 

He ‘oomphed’ as he tripped over a chair leg and sprawled onto the stained wooden floor.  Every head in the Leaky Cauldron swivelled towards the undignified heap he made in front of the Floo.  Hearing the whispers of ‘Harry Potter’ and ‘The Chosen One’ begin to circulate around the pub, Harry quickly picked himself up and made a beeline for the back alleyway.

A shrill voice broke out over the excited chatter. “Goodness me, if it isn’t Harry Potter!”

Swearing under his breath, he passed through the archway into Diagon Alley and broke into a sprint.  How had he forgotten to glamour or disillusion himself at the very least, if not wear his Invisibility Cloak? 

Behind him, a crowd of witches and wizards were gathering en masse shoving and yelling, clamouring to have their voices heard.

“Psst, in here!”

A door stood open on his right, tucked in between Flourish & Blott’s and Madam Malkin’s and barely visible.  A hand was waving at him frantically, and Harry jumped in without a second thought.  He doubled over panting for breath as a click of the door sounded behind him, followed by a _Colloportus_ and a Notice-Me-Not Charm.

A pair of feet entered his line of vision.  “Are you alright?”

As air flowed his lungs, Harry slowly straightened up and tilted his head.  A boy was hovering over him in concern, as though waiting to catch Harry if he collapsed. With curly blond hair, aristocratic nose, and bright blue eyes, he couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Thanks for the help.”

The boy shrugged.  “Couldn’t very well let the Man Who Conquered get mobbed now, could I?”

An awkward silence fell between them.  Harry turned around and took in his temporary refuge. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, even once his eyes had adjusted to the dim light.  Shelves and desks were haphazardly arranged, and not a single surface had even an inch of free space.  Dusty books were placed alongside stacks of ornate china sets, and brightly coloured wooden pigs stood beside orbiting globes of various sizes.  A wall on one side was covered in cutlasses, daggers, bows and arrows, axes, and other unfamiliar lethal weaponry, while woven tapestries and patterned draperies hung from another.

“It’s an antique shop.  My parents owned it,” the boy said quietly. 

“Oh.”  Harry shifted uncomfortably.  “Are they …”

“Dead.  They were killed by Death Eaters.”

“Oh.  Sorry.” Harry fought the urge to drum his fingers on his thigh.  “Are you staying with family, then?”

The boy glared up at him defiantly.  “No.  I’m taking care of the shop myself.  I haven’t had any problems in the last month, and they left me their notes and records of the shop’s upkeep and sales.  It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

It was plain to see that the boy didn’t want anyone to interfere. In his ire his words spilled faster, and Harry could hear an undertone of an accent that reminded him of Victor Krum.  Maybe he had been schooled at Durmstrang?  He couldn’t recall seeing him at Hogwarts, and he was reasonably confident in his ability to remember most of the younger years.  “Right.  Er, will you be going to Hogwarts next year then?”

The boy deflated like a pricked balloon. “Maybe,” the boy mumbled, scuffing his foot on the floor.

Harry’s discomfort was rising to hitherto undiscovered heights. It seemed like everything he said struck a nerve with this kid.  “Er, well, I guess I’ll see you there if you decide to come. Thanks again for the rescue. I’ll just …”  He gestured vaguely at the door.

The boy nodded.  “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Glad to help.”

Harry headed for the door, before turning back around. “Hey, what was your name, by the way?”

The boy’s head snapped up.  “Max.”  He hesitated, before adding, “Max von Bayern.”

 

* * *

 

Standing in front of the steps of the towering white marble building, Harry took a deep breath.  He had remembered to pull up the hood of his cloak before exiting the shop, so passersby didn’t give him a second glance.  The sword seemed to thrum against his trouser leg in tandem with his nervous energy.  

As he passed the armed and uniformed goblins, it was all he could do to keep walking staidly forward.  Everything would turn out alright.  The goblins weren’t going to disembowel him.  His eyes skimmed the ominous words engraved in the doors of the entrance hall and gulped.  At least, not until they had the sword in their hands. 

His perusal of the room bore fruit immediately. To his left, two cloaked and hooded figures stood in the corner, one fidgeting and shifting between his feet, while the other stood ramrod straight and utterly still.  

Despite his tension, Harry couldn’t help but grin. It appeared that Ron and Hermione still checked their DA galleon regularly.

Coming up behind them, he gave a soft “Boo.”

In a split second, he was looking down the business end of two wands. Raising his hands in surrender, he chuckled weakly.  “Surprise?”

Hermione’s other hand had been clamped tightly over her mouth as if to muffle a scream, and her eyes were wild in panic.  “Harry!” she hissed, her expression stormy. She looked like she wanted nothing more than to strangle the life out of him.  “If you do that ever again, I will punch you into pulp until you are an unrecognisable mass of flesh and bones,” she whispered fiercely.

Harry glanced up at Ron, relieved to see the mutual terror of their female counterpart mirrored in his eyes.  “I’ll … keep that in mind.”  Gesturing to the numerous counters he added, “Shall we?” 

As one, the three of them grasped each other’s hands and breathed out slowly, nodded grimly, and walked to the nearest teller. 

Harry knew the game was up the moment he saw the goblin reach under his counter for what was either some kind of alarm or a weapon.  “Please,” he whispered desperately. “We’re here to return Gryffindor’s sword.” 

The goblin barred his pointy teeth in bloodthirsty warning. “For your sakes, you had better be telling the truth.  There is no shortage of goblins in these halls who would be delighted to exterminate you, finger by finger, limb by limb.”  His eyes flashed dangerously, before turning to his side. “Knifeteeth,” he barked, “take these three to Ironclaw’s office.  Do not let them out of your sight until they are in his hands."

Having not seen their faces, there was marginally less hostility from Knifeteeth as they were prodded into a door leading off the hall and through the winding corridors.  Hermione’s fingers dug into the palm of his hand, and Ron was subtly trying to loosen her vice-like grip on her other side.  Lining the corridors were doors upon doors, each with two goblins flanking the sides.

They had been walking for at least fifteen minutes without speaking a word before Knifeteeth finally stopped in front of a wooden door and rapped smartly.

“Enter,” came a raspy voice from within. 

The goblin – Ironclaw, he assumed – half-rose in an aborted lunge and growled from behind his desk as soon as he spotted their faces. “Leave,” he barked roughly.

There was a tense silence as Knifeteeth exited and the door shut behind him.

“Since you are not already a pile of bloody carcasses, I assume you have something to give me?” Ironclaw snarled.

Hermione nudged him sharply.  “Yes!  Er …” Harry fumbled through the folds of his cloak, wincing at the goblin’s impatient scowl. “Here!”  He pulled the sword out triumphantly and put it on the desk.

For the first time since entering the office, Ironclaw took his eyes off the trio.  He gazed in awe at the priceless artefact, hand moving to touch the blade.

“No!”  He had to clasp his hands together not to quiver under the force of the goblin’s glare. “I know Nagini’s blood probably won’t hurt you, but there’s basilisk venom infused into it too …”

The goblin' expression had gone completely blank, before his brows furrowed in contemplation.  Whatever his thoughts, Harry knew that he had to impress upon him the importance of its role in the past few months – well, years, really.  Besides, it was his decision alone, one that Ron and Hermione had no part in. “That’s why we needed the sword; basilisk venom was one of the only means of destroying the Horcruxes. Please believe me when I say that we had always intended to give it back, but without it, defeating Voldemort would have been much harder.  And it was me that chose to ignore Hermione’s and Bill’s warnings anyway.  No one else had anything to do with it but me.” He could feel twin glares burning holes into the side of his head, but he only had eyes for the goblin in front of him.

“Horcruxes, you say?”  In sharp contrast to his previous temper, there was a bland quality to Ironclaw’s words.  “And do you have proof?”

Harry looked questioningly at the others.  What kind of proof was there to indicate that an object _used_ to be a Horcrux? He could almost see the cogs turning in Hermione’s head as she frowned.

Ron cleared his throat.  “We still have the objects that the Horcruxes were in, if that helps?” he asked, before casting a worried glance at Hermione.  “We do, don’t we?”

Harry looked back at the goblin who was still watching the three of them in silence.  “Well, I used to be one.  That should count, right?”

A loud screech sounded as Ironclaw pushed back his chair. “What?”  The disbelief in his voice was clear in his strangled tone. “Do you mean to tell me that you, a human wizard, used to be a Horcrux?”

“Er …” His eyes darted automatically to Hermione in his confusion. “Yes.  I was one of them.  One of the Horcruxes, I mean, not one of the human wizard Horcruxes. Because I was the only one – human one, that is.”  He felt another sharp dig into his ribs as he continued to ramble.

“I … see.”  Ironclaw looked like he didn’t know whether to deem him insane or be horrified at the alternative. “There is a simple way to verify your claims.”  He opened a section of his side cupboard and walked into the expanded space, muttering to himself as he looked at the shelves.  Pulling out a plain silver bowl and a large vial, he beckoned them closer. The contents of the vial were poured into the bowl, and he said, “Ordinarily, we would place the Horcrux, past or present, into this liquid,” he waved at translucent white fluid, “but it should work just as well with your body.  Put your hand into it.  If it is as you say and you were the vessel of a Horcrux, the liquid will turn black.”

Harry dipped his fingers gingerly into the liquid and held his breath in anticipation.  He felt a sinking horror as it stayed white, until suddenly, without any transition, the whole bowl turned coal black.  The shock on Ironclaw’s face would have been comical at any other time. As it was, Harry’s lungs almost collapsed in relief as the air rushed out, and Hermione sagged tiredly against Ron.

Harry jumped when Ironclaw grasped his hand and pulled it towards him. The goblin peered closer, the tip of his nose almost touching the back of Harry’s hand, and ran an iron claw lightly across the faint lines of his scar.  “You have repeatedly written with a Blood Quill."

“Yeah.”  Harry raised his eyebrows quizzically at Ron.  What did that have to do with Horcruxes, or even Gryffindor’s sword?

Abruptly, Ironclaw released his hand and called out in Gobbledegook.  Another goblin, presumably one of the ones standing guard outside, entered the office. They had a rapid and guttural conversation, before the guard left the room. 

Turning back to them, Ironclaw snapped his fingers and three chairs appeared in front of the desk.  “We will not be disturbed. Sit down.  We have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, although the whole claiming his Lordships part of the Gringotts visit hasn't actually occurred yet. Which I'm sorry about, but I'm telling you with 100% honesty that I never know what and when and how much I am going to write until I actually start. However, I do have good news: I have a more definite idea for where the plot is going! Which is always good, so, y'know.
> 
> Anyway, Happy Mother's (or Mothers', if you have more than one mother figure) Day, everyone! And please don't forget to review! :)


	7. Chapter 7

Once they were all seated, Ironclaw looked at them solemnly.  “Before we begin, let me assure you that nothing spoken in this room will be repeated to another without your express consent.” He pointed to the door. “The knob is made with pure obsidian and has privacy and secrecy wards anchored to it, ensuring confidentiality.” 

Harry’s interest was piqued.  When he had researched wizarding wards, the Fidelius Charm seemed to be the safest option, and even that was limited by several factors, not least the intricacy and power needed to perform the charm and the reliability of the secret keeper. And yet, it appeared to be standard in Gringotts to have such wards in every room, with only an easily obtainable – albeit glossy – rock as the cornerstone. 

Beside him, Hermione looked like she was barely holding herself back from inspecting every inch of it and taking it apart layer by layer.

Fingers steepled, Ironclaw hummed as he considered each of them in turn, his gaze finally resting on Harry.  “I must confess that since you entered my office, not a single moment has gone the way I expected.  You have honoured your agreement with a goblin and returned the sword of Gryffindor. You intervened where many wizards would have watched with no qualms as I poisoned myself.  You have enlightened me to the secret of Tom Riddle’s immortality and further proven that you yourself housed one of the pieces of his soul.  And you have a phrase carved in the back of your hand that was not a result of any signature given at Gringotts.  You are a very strange wizard, Harry Potter.”

Ron snorted.  “Well, that’s Harry for you.  Blowing everyone’s expectations out of the water with death-defying stunts that make your life expectancy shorten a few decades every time …”  Harry thought he heard something about “dragons” and “grey hairs” in the muttering that followed.

A small frown was the only indication that Ironclaw had heard Ron.  “In any event, I had hoped to meet you much sooner. If not during your fourth year, at least during the reading of Sirius Black’s will.  However, I appreciate that it must have been a difficult decision; after all, you were a major player in the war. I presume you elected to wait until you were able to look over everything at your leisure?”

“Er …” Harry was getting tired of turning to Hermione every time he didn’t have an answer, but it was difficult to tamp down on the ingrained instinct.  For once, Hermione looked as bewildered as he felt.

“Harry, you haven’t met with your account manger yet?  Assuming that’s what you are?” Ron inquired to Ironclaw.

The goblin merely nodded, looking increasingly grim with every word.

“What do you mean, Ron?  I hardly see how it matters since I haven’t seen my account manager either.  And I'm older than both of you,” Hermione reminded.

Ron rolled his eyes.  “That’s because you’re a Muggle-born, Hermione," he said, before cringing at her expression.  "No, not like that!  It’s just that the only account you’d have is the one you opened when you first entered the wizarding world.  Harry here would’ve had years and years of Potter wealth accumulating in his vaults, so of course he needs to come to Gringotts!”  He looked taken aback at the uncomprehending looks on their faces. “Blimey, Harry, has no one told you about your Lordship?”

Harry wanted to cry out in frustration.  There was that term again: Lordship.  “Dea– _He_ mentioned Lordships too, when I met him,” he said, looking at them meaningfully, “but I don’t know what that _means_! Besides, when would I have met my account manager, exactly?  Between watching Voldemort get resurrected and getting attacked by dementors? Or when I was under lockdown at the Dursleys?  Or maybe while I was Undesirable No. 1 and scouring the country for Horcruxes? Why does everyone assume that I know everything about the wizarding world when I was as ignorant as Hermione before I got my letter?”

“Mate, we know that you’re basically a Muggle-born in terms of knowledge,” Ron said nervously, “but I thought someone would have told you by now, that’s all.” Harry felt the ire rush out of him at Ron’s apologetic flush.  “Seems stupid now.  ‘S not really surprising that Dumbledore kept you in the dark about this too, and Sirius, well, he was on the run for most of fourth year and you barely had any time with him in the fifth.”

“Am I to understand,” Ironclaw interrupted, sounding a bit menacing, “that Harry Potter does not know a single thing related to his inheritance?”

 Harry felt a bit indignant – it wasn’t exactly his fault that no one saw fit to tell him these things. 

 When it was clear that none of them were denying his observation, Ironclaw sighed. “This will be our foremost priority then.  Am I correct in assuming that Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley will be remaining with you during the proceedings?” 

At Harry’s assent, the goblin clapped his hands together.  “Very well.  Now, the first thing that needs to be done is finding out the families that you are heir to.  We can expect Potter and probably Black, but beyond that would be pure conjecture.”

Harry’s alarm must have shown on his face, for Ironclaw clarified, “Inheritance is almost entirely dependent on magic, Mr. Potter.  However, as the sole direct remaining member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter, you are all but the default heir. The order of succession of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is slightly more complex, as most pureblood families are connected to the family in one way or another. However, you are still one of the closest relatives of Sirius Black through your grandmother Dorea Black-Potter. Furthermore, the late Lord Black’s wish to pass on the title to you will have an influence on the magic; after all, magic is based on intent. 

“For you to be eligible for any other inheritances, the Lordship of a family must be inactive and you must have some tie to it.  The familial magic will consider you and if you are the worthiest of the contenders, you will receive the Lordship.” 

The more Ironclaw explained, the less Harry was liking it.  The whole thing sounded like a load of obscure mumbo jumbo, and knowing his luck, things were going to get complicated fast. Not that it wasn’t already a hot, boiling mess.  Fat lot of good his extra research did, when he didn’t study any aspects of the wizarding world outside of the subjects offered at Hogwarts.  “But what if I don’t _want_ any other Lordships?  Can’t I just claim the Potter Lordship and be done with it?”

Ironclaw’s eyes gleamed in amusement.  “Magic is not a pet that rolls over on command, Mr. Potter.  If anything, it is the other way around. If it deems you worthy, you will accept.” His tone was final.

Harry heard an echoing laughter in his head.  Just peachy.  ‘Gold star for timing, Death,’ he thought wryly.

‘It would have been remiss of me to leave my Master without support on this very momentous occasion,’ Death replied, mirth evident in his tone.

It was a near thing for Harry not to snort out loud.  ‘Yeah, yeah.  Admit it, you just want to watch and laugh as magic screws with me again. Since I’m ‘marked by Fate’ or whatever, I’ll probably end up with a dozen Lordships and have an army of pureblood families out for my blood for stealing their titles.' 

‘Shush now, that’s not very nice.  Be a good hero and listen to the goblin, he’s going to explain how to claim your titles.’

“ … the lights out.”

Harry just caught a glimpse of an ice-coloured bowling ball-sized gem in the centre of the floor before the lanterns were extinguished.  Hermione wasn’t able to stifle an awestruck gasp, and he couldn’t blame her. 

In front of them, the stone was ascending slowly towards the ceiling, glowing ethereally and shooting out pulses of blue-white light at irregular intervals. As it rose higher, Harry realised that the pulses of light were actually acting like hooks, catching at unseen points on the intricate domed ceiling.  Finally it stopped, and the gem hung suspended by the ropes of light like a ghostly chandelier. 

Gradually, so subtly that Harry scarcely noticed it happening, the moon-like glow unveiled rows upon rows of doors.  Lining every inch of the circular wall were doors of varying shapes and sizes and intricacy. Some were plain square doors like the one that had held the Philosopher’s Stone, others were embossed with large emblems – he was sure he had caught a flash of the Hogwarts coat of arms – while still others were ostentatious masses of wrought iron inlaid with precious jewels. 

The hushed voice of Ironclaw reached his ears.  “Mr. Potter, now you must pull out your magic and concentrate a beam of it into the Sphere of Fortune.”

“How – how do I do that?”

The goblin growled exasperatedly, and Death muttered in his head about ‘education standards’ and ‘kids these days’.  “You have performed wandless magic, have you not?  Picture that sensation and pool it into the palm of your hand.”

Harry thought back to the desperate _Lumos_ he had performed in Little Whinging and all the subsequent painstakingly practiced and perfected charms and spells.  He closed his eyes and unconsciously fell into the pattern of regulated breathing he used when meditating before a session of Occlumency.

“Yes … that’s it … now direct the magic at the Sphere,” Ironclaw whispered.

When Harry opened his eyes, his hand was bathed in wavy, flowing tides of light similar to that of the Sphere.  In the radiance, he could make out Ron’s and Hermione’s faces awash with wonderment.

Taking a deep breath, he willed his magic to rise, and almost jumped out of his skin as it surged up and shot into the gem.  The light propelled out of the Sphere in arcs and connected to various doors on the wall, and the remaining doors swiftly faded out. Without warning, the Sphere dropped in a freefall from the ceiling as though its strings had been cut. Harry braced himself for the inevitable crash and glimpsed Ron and Hermione doing the same, but the Sphere merely touched the floor in a gentle thud. 

Death chuckled.  ‘You _can_ breathe, you know.’

The lanterns were lit again, and they blinked rapidly.  Harry felt disoriented, like he had just done ten consecutive Wronski Feints and suddenly braked to a stop. 

Ironclaw was already seated behind his desk and putting the Sphere away. Behind him, now level with the floor, were the doors that the Sphere had connected to.  Five of them.  The goblin looked like Christmas had come early; he only needed to rub his hands together in glee to complete the picture.  Death’s anticipation was almost palpable, and Harry was exponentially more apprehensive.

“Well, well, Mr. Potter.  It looks like magic favours you a great deal; you have been quite fortuitous. While not the number of titles that I had half-expected, you certainly have obtained an exclusive array. Houses Potter and Black of course, as expected,” he said, gesturing to two of the doors.  “Gryffindor, which I should have foreseen as you have wielded the sword,” he added, pointing to a third door. “Even Slytherin is plausible, as you have defeated the last heir.  Peverell …”  Ironclaw paused, eyeing them curiously.  The suffocating quality of Death’s silent smugness had Harry wishing the being would take a physical form just so he could wring the bastard’s neck. “It seems I am the only one that is surprised by this particular development, however …”

Ironclaw was right.  That he was heir to the Peverell family was decidedly underwhelming after Death had informed him of his immortal status, but Gryffindor and Slytherin were both shocks to him. Harry didn’t know whether to be relieved or utterly stunned.  On one hand, five was much more manageable than the dozen that he had initially feared but … he was still heir to _two_ of the _founders_.

“You really don’t do things by half, eh, mate?” Ron choked.  He was outright laughing at him, and even Hermione was smiling fondly.  Some friends they were, the traitors.

Miffed, he proceeded to ignore them and turned his attention back to Ironclaw. “Yes, Peverell isn’t very surprising, even if it is a bit unexpected.  My father had left me an heirloom which I later discovered was passed down from … the Peverells.”

Ironclaw did not look entirely convinced but accepted the half-truth with a nod and beckoned him up to his desk.  “Very well.  We can now carry on with claiming your Lordships.  Begin with Potter, as it is the one to which you have the closest tie.”  He led Harry to the door on the very left.

The entrance was a stately design of steel with a large golden crest gleaming in the centre.  Running through the crest was a stripe of red in the shape of an inverted V. 

‘A chevron,’ Death explained.  ‘Signifying protection and faithfulness.  It is a common element in many pureblood crests, as family is held above anything else.  Every colour and symbol on the crest – the gold crest, the red chevron, the blue stags, and the white crown – represents something that the family stands for, and the motto brings out the essence of their nature.’  It was then that Harry noticed the string of Latin words inscribed under the crest. 

 _Fortis et astutus_.  Bold and crafty. 

Huh. Maybe he hadn't been the only Potter with Slytherin tendencies after all.

Peering closer, Harry noted that at the bottom tip of the crest, just above the motto, were two slots that each held a signet ring, one slightly bigger than the other, and both with the Potter coat of arms. 

Ironclaw ran a gnarled finger under them.  “As you can see, on the door of each vault are the Lordship and Heir rings. The ring that gives way at your touch is the one meant for you.  However, as the Lords of all these Houses, with the exception of Sirius Black, have been dead for over a decade, it is highly unlikely that you will not be claiming the Lordship.” 

At Harry’s apprehensive glance, the goblin prodded his thigh.  “Are you waiting for a written invitation, Mr. Potter? Proceed.”

As soon as Harry’s skin brushed the Lordship ring, it fell out of the slot into his hand. 

Ironclaw gave a shark-like grin of satisfaction.  “Congratulations, Lord Potter, on your first Lordship.”

Harry continued in a similar vein around the semicircle of doors, with Death giving a running commentary on the symbolism of each crest.  Harry made a mental note to look into them in more detail later. 

Finally, he was facing the crest of the Peverell vault.  With only one black crown in the centre of a gleaming expanse of silver, it’s minimalistic design stood in marked contrast to the previous ones.  Unlike the others, two mottos bracketed it: _Hinc mihi salus_ from above, and _Vita incerta, mors certissima_ from below.

The hours of rigorous study of the Latin language stood him in good stead now, and Harry almost sniggered at the words. 

‘I can see why you favoured the Peverells; they were almost as dramatic as you are,’ Harry thought in amusement at Death.  ‘ ‘Hence comes salvation to me’?  If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was a religious prayer of some sort.’

Death sniffed imperiously.  ‘It was Ignotus’s contribution, just before he came to me.  He wanted it to be a reminder for future generations; a reassurance that one’s passing need not be feared as well as a warning that clinging to life for too long will have one yearning for death.’

‘And the second one?  ‘The most certain thing in life is death’?  What excuse do you have for that?’

‘That … was entirely me,’ Death admitted.  ‘Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus all expressed the same sentiments upon their deaths, a lesson they learned the hard way.  It seemed a fitting tribute.’

During their internal conversation, Ironclaw must have reached the end of his patience, for Harry found his hand grabbed by the goblin and brought down to the ring.

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, staring in disbelief at the unassuming piece of jewellery.  In his palm lay the resurrection stone, whole and unblemished but for the family crest engraved into it, and embedded on a band of plain silver. 

… What the hell?

Death sighed.  ‘For such an intelligent wizard, you are certainly rather determined to remain wilfully ignorant on particular matters.  You are the Master of Death, Harry.  It is not a title to be thrown about lightly, nor will it change. You have sole control over the Hallows.  If you wish for it, it will come to you.  The Elder Wand could be called up now with simply a thought – in fact, the Wand will be in your hand if it is needed, whether it was asked for or not.  The same can be said for the Cloak and the Stone. On this matter you must yield, Harry, for we are yours forever.’

Harry’s fist clenched around the ring.  A burst of anger flared and died just as quickly.  Alright.  He could do this.  He was having an existential crisis in a nondescript office in a goblin-run bank, but he could do this.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Death was right; it wasn’t as though ignoring the issue would just make it go away. For Merlin’s sake, he was the _Master of Death_ , not the Knight Bus conductor.  In some corner of his mind he _had_ known, but it was one thing to acknowledge it and quite another to accept it in its entirety with all its vast implications.  No amount of whinging was going to change the fact that he was the Master of Death, and would be until the end of time.

‘Well done, Master,’ Death murmured, and his presence vanished from Harry’s head before he could be chastised for the choice of address.

The Deathly Hallows sign on his chest burned slightly under his chest, and a small squeak sounded behind him.  Ron, Hermione, and Ironclaw were staring at him in astonishment, an almost drunken euphoria in their wide eyes. 

Hermione came out of her stupor first and answered his unasked question. “Harry … you were … you were blazing with waves of pure black, and the _power_ …”  She shivered almost reverently. “There was so much of it that I thought I would drown from the sheer volume – and I would have welcomed it gladly.”  A fearful tremor had entered her voice, and she hugged herself tightly.

What had he _done_?

“Mate, tone down on the humongous flames of Hades thing next time, yeah?” Ron spoke soothingly as he approached him, as though calming a skittish colt.  “Or at least give us a warning so we know to brace ourselves,” he added with a weak grin.

It was all Harry could do not to throw himself at his best friend in relief, but the decision was taken out of hands when Ron’s body enveloped him completely. He hadn’t realised that he was trembling uncontrollably until small hands came up from behind him and rubbed gently down his sides.

“Shh, it’s alright, we’re here for you.  I’m sorry I worried you, Harry, but us mere mortals need a moment to adjust after displays of such boundless proportions of power.”  Harry could hear the faint smile in Hermione’s voice.

It was as though every muscle in him collapsed, with only Ron and Hermione holding him upright.  How long they stood like that Harry didn’t know, but all too soon, a throat cleared delicately.

“Lord Peverell, is everything alright?”  Ironclaw sounded uncharacteristically concerned, or at least, as concerned as a goblin could sound in their rough, gravelly voices.

Slowly, the three of them separated from their many-limbed cocoon and sat back down. Embarrassed at his breakdown, Harry smiled tremulously at the goblin.  “Sorry, Ironclaw, I was just a bit … overwhelmed. It won’t happen again. Also, could you maybe call me Harry?  Lord Peverell seems a bit … much …”

The goblin gave him an inscrutable look, before smirking suddenly. “Technically, on parchment you would be Lord Potter-Black-Gryffindor-Slytherin-Peverell, and that is the way you will have to sign all future official documents.  So Lord Peverell is not very ‘much’. However, it can be as you wish,” he added, seeing Harry’s deepening scowl.

Harry nodded decisively.  “Good. Now, what’s next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I present you Gringotts in all its dramatic glory! I went a bit nuts with the glowy sphere thing, sorry about that. It was one of those things I just couldn’t resist, especially because I’ve read tons of Harry-drops-blood-onto-a-parchment-and-out-comes-a-summary-of-inheritances fics, which are absolutely fine, but I wanted to make this one completely mine :p
> 
> This chapter also had a lot more research going into it. I wanted to make the crests and mottos as realistic as possible, so I used a website to create crests for each family (minus the Blacks, which JKR has provided for), and found an archive of mottos from which I picked a suitable one (because I don’t know Latin – yes, what an uncultured philistine I am, shame on me – and have an ingrained mistrust of Google Translate).
> 
> Please review! It helps me understand what you like and what I should improve and/or clarify :)


	8. Chapter 8

Wrapping up matters regarding his inheritance took far longer than Harry had expected. He realised that he had five large and ostentatious rings each representing a renowned Lordship in its own right, and briefly entertained visions of pompous old purebloods waving their hands in flamboyant gestures in such a way that light would glint off their numerous pieces of jewellery.  When Ironclaw explained that they would merge into one and only display the most influential of them all, Harry had very nearly kissed his leathery cheek in gratitude. Instead he chuckled to himself, realising that he would be walking about with the Resurrection Stone adorning his finger and none the wiser about its significance as anything but a common signet ring. 

When Ironclaw went on to describe the finances of each family, the sheer wealth he now possessed had rendered him speechless. 

The founders’ vaults had galleons coming in from Hogwarts which, while not huge amounts, still totalled about a thousand years’ worth of accumulated gold. He promptly arranged for these to be donated back to Hogwarts – hopefully it would help cover the costs required for rebuilding the castle. 

Fred and George had apparently deposited into the Potter vault a thirty percent share of the Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes, which had grown into massive proportions with their success.  The Potter and Black accounts were reaping the benefits of well-made investments, and although both had taken blows during the war – presumably financing the opposite sides – they still were in better shape than the founders’.  In an ironic twist of fate, despite the Peverells’ standing within the magical community, it was this vault that held the smallest fortune, left untouched as it was after the deaths of the three brothers.

The next matter was having the wills read. 

His parents’ will was mostly a restating of what he had already surmised – most of the gold had been left to him, with the exception of a few obvious beneficiaries. However, finding that in the event of their deaths the Longbottoms and Greengrasses had also been identified as potential next members-of-kin had taken him by surprise.

Upon further reflection, he realised that the Longbottoms weren’t too farfetched, especially considering that they had also been Order members.  After all, he had no idea how close Neville’s parents had been to his.  Yet, no matter how he tried, there seemed to be no way to rationalise the Greengrasses. He vaguely recalled the two quiet sisters in Slytherin who could be found with each other more often than not – but what connection did they have to him? 

Resolving to look into it later, he continued through Sirius’ and Remus’ wills.

Sirius had given everything he owned (bar a few hundred galleons for Remus) to Harry, along with an uncharacteristically long letter that Harry opted to read when he was alone.  Remus had left all his possessions to Teddy and named Harry as his godfather officially.

Both wills were uncomplicated in and of themselves, but Harry couldn’t help the fresh tears that sprung to his eyes with each one. 

After reinstating Andromeda as a Black and removing Bellatrix and Walburga from the family – tasks that he took great relish in – Ironclaw demanded to know how the sword of Gryffindor came to be soaked in basilisk venom. Harry had to resort to showing the memory in a Pensieve when the goblin refused to believe his tale, and would have laughed at the flabbergasted expression had he been able to ignore Hermione’s death grip cutting off his hand’s circulation.

This lead to retelling a few more of his adventures, including the use of the blood quill, which had Ironclaw growling darkly about the Ministry and how they were perverting the ideas behind goblin-made items.  By the time Harry, with frequent interjections from Ron and Hermione, had recounted their various escapades over the last seven years, they had almost finished the dinner that Ironclaw had called in.

“Well, Mr. Harry” – Harry rolled his eyes at the goblin’s persistent use of the honorific – “you certainly have defied high odds to accomplish everything that you have, and I am sure there is much you have omitted.  I would suggest that you get in touch with your family solicitor at your earliest convenience, as he will be better able to assist you with the legal consequences of some of your exploits as well as your Lordship duties.”

Harry couldn’t summon the energy needed to be more than mildly irritated at this new piece of information.  “And who is my solicitor?”

Ironclaw, it seemed, had also resigned himself to explaining much more than he should have to, for he only sighed.  “Mr. Laurel, of the Laurel and Hardy Legal House.  He has quite a competent knowledge of both the wizarding and Muggle legislation systems, and is often sought after by Muggle-borns for this reason.  No doubt he has been expecting word from you for many years now."

“I’ll owl him, then.  Was there anything else I needed to do, Ironclaw?”

“Nothing that cannot wait.  I am certain I will be seeing more of you in the months to come.”

“Of course,” Harry sighed.  “Not that I don’t want to see you, but it would be nice not to have to think about anything beyond returning to Hogwarts.  Nonetheless, thank you, Ironclaw.  You’ve been extremely helpful, and I am most grateful for your efforts.”

The goblin grunted in what Harry assumed was assent.  “As you have behaved with honour, it behoves me to return the courtesy.” He escorted them to the door. “Till we meet again, Mr. Harry. Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a strange sight that they made, sitting with their hoods up in a corner table of Fortescue’s and licking their ice cream. 

“Right,” Harry stated as he polished off his cone, “I’d better send Mr. Hardy an owl and fix up a meeting." 

He snorted at Hermione’s eager expression.  “Yes, Hermione, you can come too.  I’ll let you know when I’ve got it set up, which” – he glanced at his watch – “will not be today.  Won’t you be missed at home?  Both of you?”

“Dad knows I’m with you,” Ron shrugged.  “Says if I’ve managed to survive with just you and Hermione for a whole year when we were in the middle of a war, I’ll be fine with you now.  Mum …,” he winced, before standing up.  “Well, Dad’ll have calmed her down, but … I’ve missed dinner now, so I reckon I should go anyway.  You’ll be alright, mate?”

“Yeah, of course.  Tell your mum I’ll be visiting soon?”

Evidently relieved that he had something to pacify his mum with, Ron nodded, before kissing Hermione softly and leaving.

Harry turned enquiringly to her.

“Well …” Hermione bit her lip nervously.  “My parents are away at a conference, so they won’t know …”

He groaned.  “We really have been a bad influence on you, haven’t we.  They already hate me enough as it is, Hermione.  If they find out that you sneaked out, they’ll probably never let me talk to you again!” 

Seeing her eyes fill up with tears, he scooted over and hugged her gently. “Hey,” he said quietly, “Have you talked to them about … everything yet?”  He sighed when he felt her shake her head into his neck. “Hermione, where has your formidable logic gone?  They’re not going to understand why you had to do what you did unless you explain it to them. In their eyes, their only daughter betrayed their trust and used magic against them.  You have to tell them the whole story – the pure-blood agenda, Voldemort, how it affected you as a Muggle-born … Even my part in this whole mess is important, both as your friend and as the Boy Who Lived.” He lifted her chin up to meet his gaze.  “They _will_ understand, Hermione, but you have to let them. Promise me you will.”

She nodded meekly.  “Promise,” she whispered.

Squeezing her once more, he sat back and added, “Besides, who’s going to dance with me during the Ministry Ball if you can’t come?  They’ve made some trumped up reason for the celebration, but seeing as it’s on my birthday and I'm the 'guest of honour', I can’t exactly _not_ attend.”  He nudged her shoulder with his.  “We can put our tent dancing into practice, what do you say?”

Hermione giggled wetly as she wiped her eyes.  “I suppose I couldn’t leave the poor Man Who Conquered to the tender mercies of the Ministry officials and their legion of daughters. And sons, probably.”

Harry’s obvious dismay prompted another giggle.  “You defeated Voldemort, you can endure a ball.” Giving him a tight hug and a smile, she added softly, “Thanks, Harry, I needed that.  I’ll owl you once I’ve talked to them and let you know how it went.”

Harry waved until she had stepped out of the shop and Disapparated.

Sitting there alone in the bright parlour, he was unable to shake off the feeling of déjà vu – not long ago, he had been completing his homework at the very same table, helped along generously by Florean Fortescue.  Now, he watched as his daughter bustled about in her father’s place in the same amiable and courteous manner.

He was struck by a sudden jittery need to explore Diagon Alley and see the changes that had affected it.  He had half a mind to ascribe it to Luna’s Blibbering Humdingers. 

Swinging to his feet, he gave a cheery goodbye to Fortescue’s daughter and walked outside. 

As he wondered whether the hood of his cloak would be enough to hide his face, Death’s words came back to him.  _You have sole control over the Hallows. If you wish for it, it will come to you._   Well, now was as good a time as any to give it a go.

‘Er, Invisibility Cloak please?’ he thought tentatively.  He felt rather foolish standing aimlessly in front of the shop and waiting for some sign that the Hallow was arriving.  No sooner than his thought materialised, something brushed his back and he jolted.  A weight settled lightly on his shoulders and when he looked down, his feet were gone. 

There was something about the cloak that felt different this time, however. He was aware of every point at which the cloth touched him, as though it were an extension of himself. Taking a few steps forward, he realised that the cloak was not getting displaced with his movement; rather, it stuck to his robes and covered him without effort. 

Looked like there were advantages to being Master of Death after all.

Passing Gringotts once more, he paused facing the Magical Menagerie. He really should buy another owl instead of making poor Cetus bear the brunt of both his and Andy’s messages, but he hadn’t the heart to get another one after Hedwig. Later, he decided. He’d come by later, but for now he swept aside his morose thoughts. 

Turning to the opposite side, he blinked rapidly as the lights of Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes hit his eyes.  How could he have forgotten? 

A sense of shame filled him as he realised that he hadn’t even known that George had reopened the shop.

Following a family of four inside, his ears were assaulted by whirs and bangs from all directions. He was surprised to see that there were still a fair few customers chattering excitedly in front of the shelves at this time of the night.  The Edible Dark Marks seemed to a popular item, as did the Pygmy Puffs and the Patented Daydream Charms.  He snorted when he noticed a rack of miniature Harry Potter collectibles, each brandishing a surprisingly accurate holly wand and shouting ‘ _Expelliarmus!_ ’ in an enthusiastically squeaky voice, followed by a row of Neville Longbottoms repeatedly chopping off Nagini’s head.

“WHIZ THOSE WIZARDING WHEEZES TO THE FRONT, FOLKS, IT’S TIME TO CALL IT A NIGHT! FIRST ONE HERE GETS A ROTTEN EGG!" 

Harry barely had time to flatten himself to the nearest wall as an avalanche of children rushed past him.  He watched in bemusement as children of all ages clamoured around the blond-haired witch – Valerie? Victory? No, … Verity! – for the ‘Rotten Egg’, which appeared to be yet another popular product.

As the clientele dwindled down, he caught a glimpse of red behind the counter. George was smiling at Verity and waving her off, clearing telling her that he could take over from there. Harry watched in awe as he chatted easily with the parents and cheekily tousled the kids’ hair and bid them all a ‘grand night’.

Once the last customer had exited the shop, George slumped tiredly against the table with a sigh, before straightening his spine just as abruptly. He rotated carefully, scanning his surroundings keenly. 

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, frozen in his spot against the wall. Somehow, George knew that there was someone still in here and would likely discover him soon, but a mixture of guilt and shame and curiosity was churning in his gut and Harry couldn’t bring himself to reveal his presence.

“Who is it?” George asked sternly.  “I know you’re there – as long as a human is touching the floor, the wards will inform me.”

Harry’s fingers twitched as an itch slowly bloomed on his thigh.

“ _Homenum Revelio!_ ” hissed George swiftly, and Harry held his breath.

Nothing happened.

George frowned in thought. “There’s someone in here, but is undetectable with the Revealing Charm,” he spoke aloud. “And yet I’ve not been attacked, even though you have a large advantage over me.  Who are you?  And what do you want?”

At the silence, he snapped irritably. “Listen, I can stay here all night.  All I have to do is watch the door for some movement and hex you.  I know I’m not going crazy – or crazier, at any rate – so can you just spare us both the hassle and show yourself!”

Trembling slightly, Harry stepped haltingly toward the redhead and slid off the cloak.

George’s face was a study in shock.  “Harry? What’re you doing here? Wait,” he scowled, wand pointed at his chest, “what did you tell Fred and I when you gave us the Triwizard winnings?”

Despite the hostile situation, Harry smiled at the memory.  “I told you I’d throw it down the drain if you didn’t take it and that we could use a few laughs in the times to come.  I was right, wasn’t I?”

George finally lowered his wand, but he was still glowering at him. “Did you really have to do that? It’s not been so long after the battle that you can pull that kind of thing, Harry.”  He walked to the nearest shelf and started straightening out the merchandise.  “Did Mum send you after me?  I told her – as I do every day – that I’d be late.”

“No, I …”  Harry stuttered. “I – I was at Gringotts and thought I’d stop by.” 

“And scare the living daylights out of me?”  Harry could hear the scepticism dripping from his voice. “Good show there, mate.”

Harry was feeling more dejected by the moment.  “I didn’t know you opened the shop again,” he blurted out. 

George turned back around and crossed his arms unsympathetically.  “Well, I didn’t know you were even still alive, so I’d say we’re even.”

“I didn’t mean– I just– ” Harry tugged at his hair in frustration. “I’m _sorry_ , alright?  I was a jumble of emotions after the whole thing and I didn’t know what I should do or what I _wanted_ to do and I – ” He found his glasses scrunched into the freckled skin of George’s neck as fingers stroked his hair.

“It’s alright,” George rumbled soothingly.  “We were all a right mess, I know that.  I – we all – just wished you wouldn’t shut us out. I reckon if I had locked myself up and refused to speak to anyone, I’d have gone round the bend. And Fred’s ghost would probably have come to haunt me into reopening the shop anyway, so I figured I might as well do it myself.”

Harry’s wavering voice was barely discernible.  “You were all grieving for Fred – I didn’t want to add my troubles onto it. Besides, I thought I could handle it.”

George’s sigh ruffled the hairs at the top of Harry’s head.  “I don’t know how else to say this, Harry, but you’re a bit of a dunce,” he said fondly.  “Whatever are we going to do with you?”

Harry sniffled quietly and nodded, his fingers twisted loosely into the back of George’s magenta robes.

Humming, George said, “Well, I suppose I should be glad you finally decided to step out of that hole of a house.  What made you go to Gringotts anyway?  Or did Andromeda just kick you out?”

George didn't seem to be relinquishing his hold, so Harry adjusted his position to rest his head more comfortably on George’s shoulder. “Close enough.  Andy made me accompany her to lunch with the Malfoys.”

“You visited the bleeding Malfoys before me?  Or even Ron or Hermione?  Harry, what were you thinking?”

Harry noted in amusement that righteous indignation made George’s tone go up a couple of octaves. “It’s not like I had much choice, you know.  You don’t argue with Andy when she glares at you.  Or Kreacher for that matter.  Anyway, we were at the Malfoys and apparently I was supposed to be Lord Black. So I had to go to Gringotts to find out what that meant – ”

“And you weren’t spit roasted over the fire of a hundred dragon flames?”

Harry shuddered slightly at the disturbing image.  “Er, no.  I had a peace offering, which went a long way.  In any case, it turns out that you are now looking at – well, constricting – a new Lord.”

George let go of him without warning and bowed low.  “Lord Potter-Black, I am honoured to meet your acquaintance. How may I be of service today?”

Harry laughed at his ridiculous antics.  “Oi, piss off, George.  Besides,” he added slyly, “officially, it’s Lord Potter-Black-Gryffindor-Slytherin-Peverell.” 

The squeak George made would be denied forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I’m a day late, and I apologize profusely! It’s just been a crazy couple of weeks with school, and I’ve got a final exam coming up in a couple of weeks as well. I also didn’t want to post an A/N chapter, because those frustrate the heck out of me.
> 
> Emotional outbursts seem to be a hallmark of my chapters, but I just can’t cut them out! Everyone’s a bit fragile post-war, and I think that just comes through naturally. In terms of canon, a quick search online showed that there’s something regarding the ‘Black Quill’ on Pottermore, which is apparently what the blood quill is called? I’ve still referred to it as a blood quill here, because I haven’t actually been on Pottermore in a couple of years. Also at this point, I should clarify that I know nothing about law at all, so bits of the next chapter might sound like bull to you (especially for those with a law background), even though I’ll try to do some research. And finally, I had told myself that I would divulge the pairing once we met the character in question, so here it is: Harry/George :)
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely reviews so far!


	9. Interlude

Not a peep could be heard when Harry let himself back into the manor. Taking care to avoid the creaky floorboards (and a certain house elf who experience taught him may be scrubbing away in a shadowy corner – Godric, how high he had jumped that night), he tiptoed up the old staircase and quietly entered his bedroom. 

Shrugging out of his robe, he reached into his pocket to retrieve his wand and instead grasped a roll of parchment.

Straightening it out absently, he caught sight of the word _‘_ Prongslet’ at the top and froze.  _Sirius._ He stumbled the few steps to his bed and dropped down, his heart thudding away at his chest. 

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he began anew.

 

> _Hey Prongslet,_
> 
> _If you’re reading this, I’ve managed to off myself – hopefully in a grand and very heroic manner, but probably before you’ve gotten rid of the old snake-faced git._
> 
> _You know I’m not one for sentimental nonsense, but as your godfather, I suppose I should have at least one of these moments with you so that I can tell Lils I’ve fulfilled my duty._
> 
> _My biggest regret, after not giving Sniv – oh alright, don’t give me those disappointed puppy eyes – Snape a swift kick in his very wretched and bitter behind, will always be the twelve years lost in Azkaban that I could have had taking care of you. Mind you, I’m quite certain Lils and even Jamie would have liked someone a smidgen more … stable, but even they would have admitted that Petunia and Vernon were not suitable guardians for our littlest love.  Besides, I would definitely have wrangled Moony into staying with us to balance out the lack of sanity, as it were, though he’d probably have turned you into a right bookworm if he had his way (or at least, more of one than you already are – don’t think I haven’t noticed you lurking in the library)._
> 
> _You were – and still are – very much loved, by all of us.  I certainly hope Dora has knocked some sense into Remus and popped out a few cubs to join you, but as the first of the second generation of Marauders, you will always have a special place in our hearts.  You were a precious and much needed bundle of joy during a very dark time, slobber and all.  We should have suspected something when that rat kept worming his way out of babysitting duty, but I will have to be satisfied with watching Lils unleash her fury on him when he joins us._
> 
> _Now, to more ~~boring~~ practical matters.  Assuming that our time together has continued in the same hectic and almost non-existent vein, I will likely not have had time to explain some important things to you._
> 
> _The first is that you are the Black heir.  At least, that’s what I hope has come to pass after you’ve gone through the whole glowy ball routine at Gringotts – which, incidentally, is the only reason I was Lord Black after Reggie died. Moony helped work out all the ~~stupid~~ obscure family connections and arithmetic probabilities, and he says there’s a fair chance that you are, so I’m just going to believe him._
> 
> _The second, and rather more serious issue, is that I do not trust Dumbledore.  Now, I know that he is one of a very limited number of adults that has been there for you time and time again, through ordeals I have yet to even hear about.  I do understand, Harry; I myself was in the same position during my Hogwarts years and am loathe to doubt him after all that he has done for us. However, he has been increasingly vague and much less forthright with me of late, a trait that I know you are intimately familiar with.  It would not have bothered me (much) had this … hoarding of information not extended to matters regarding you and the progress of the Order.  The last straw was when I found a Mail Monitoring Charm on me, attuned specifically to the letters I sent to you. I don’t need to tell you how worrying this is – how many of my letters have been altered, or not received at all? – and have hopefully managed to pass on the two-way mirror to you soon._
> 
> _I think I’ve covered all the truly essential points – if I continue, I will either exceed Moony’s Animagi essay for Professor McGonagall or sneak into Hogwarts and squeeze the breath out of you, neither of which I can bear at the moment, for different reasons._
> 
> _Behind the posters on my bedroom wall – which you’ll now find you can take down (and appreciate much more extensively) – are compartments with my most prized possessions: pictures of my time at Hogwarts, a few of journals, that sort of thing._
> 
> _I am sorry, Harry – once again, I’ve left you behind with a few woefully inadequate words and trinkets. So many times I have wondered what things would have been like had I – had we all – done things differently._
> 
> _No matter what happens, know that I am extremely proud of you, Harry.  You have far exceeded anything we ever did, and are better than we have ever been.  All I wish for you is to be happy, whether that means fleeing to the Caribbean islands and forgetting about Voldemort, marrying a vampire and opening a flower shop, or becoming a famous Quidditch star.  And maybe give Snape that kick I couldn’t, yeah?_
> 
> _I had better not see you anytime soon, Prongslet.  Have fun, stir up some trouble – perhaps you could get those exceptional Weasley twins to help – and just … enjoy yourself._
> 
> _Love,_       
> 
> _Padfoot_

 

Tears fell with abandon from his cheeks onto the parchment, and he hastily blotted them away.  His heart was lodged in his throat waiting to erupt – if he opened his mouth, he didn’t know whether the sound he released would be a scream, laugh, or sob.

 _Merlin_ , his emotions were a wreck … He didn’t think it was possible feel this much at once, and that was saying something after the mess he’d been for most of fifth year.

It was as though everything he ought to have felt after Sirius’ death was finally ramming into him with all the force and inevitability of the Hogwarts Express.  Sirius, the only person in the whole world for whom Harry’s wellbeing had been his first priority.  Harry knew he sounded ungrateful, but if he had had to make the choice of dying completely or going back to defeat Voldemort at this very moment, he would not have hesitated in getting on that train just to hear Sirius’ bark of laughter again.

Smoothing out the wrinkles from his desperate grip, he perused the words again.  Sirius was _smart_.  Harry had known that of course, as becoming an Animagus at fifteen was no mean feat, but his godfather had observed and questioned details that even Remus had accepted more or less blindly.  That his Azkaban-addled mind – and he was under no delusion that the wizarding prison hadn’t affected him profoundly – had still found the Light’s leader’s actions suspect was a testament to both his sharp intellect and his fierce love for his godson.

Harry sighed, regret welling up from deep within.  The words that he wished he had spoken to Sirius would remain unsaid, forever caught in that tenebrous cage of could haves and should haves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, soooo many apologies for the late update. I won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say that this past month and a half was very eventful. As you've no doubt noticed, this is just an interlude and not an actual chapter. I'm working on the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> My initial plan didn't actually include Harry's reading of this letter, but it sort of wrote itself while I was trying to whip up the next chapter into shape, so this is the compromise. Hopefully you still like it!


	10. Chapter 10

 Harry woke up the next morning feeling more content and rested than he had been in a long time.  He luxuriated in the serene silence, feeling the rays of sunlight warming his cheek.

The previous day had been more fruitful than he could have ever expected, and meeting with George had been an added bonus.  Everything that had occurred in the last year had come spilling forth from Harry with little prompting, from the Horcrux hunt to the revelations at Gringotts earlier that day.  The only omission had been his status as Master of Death because … well, that wasn’t the sort of thing one blurted out in casual conversation, was it? He still had numerous questions for Death regarding the whole situation, and besides, who else other than Ron and Hermione really needed to know?  George had interjected the narrative with colourful comments and observations throughout, and it was with a lighter heart that Harry had returned home.

A low hoot broke him out of his thoughts.  On the pillow next to his head with its leg stuck out patiently stood a barn owl. Sitting up and unrolling the parchment, he read: 

 

> _Dear Lord Potter,_
> 
> _I am pleased to receive your missive, and would be agreeable to a meeting soon.  If it is to your convenience, my office is available at 9 a.m. on Monday, June 8 th. Laurel and Hardy Legal House is located at Number 26, Commershee Alley._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Stan Laurel,_
> 
> _Legal Associate, Laurel and Hardy Legal House_

 

A prompt and brief response.  Well, at least there were only two days until the meeting – hopefully nothing life-altering would happen between now and then.

He grabbed a scrap of parchment from the bedside table and penned a quick affirmative. After tying it to the owl’s leg, he stood up and stretched languorously.  The smell of breakfast wafted into his nose – mm, pancakes. Casting Cleaning and Breath Freshening Charms in quick succession, he scratched his stomach idly and trailed down the stairs.

“Morning, Andy,” he yawned as he entered the kitchen.  Seeing Teddy in his crib by the table, he brightened visibly.  “And good morning to you too, my little Teddy bear,” he cooed, dropping a sloppy kiss on his stomach. 

“Aaaa aaa,” Teddy burbled happily, his amber eyes sparkling.

Andromeda placed a plate of pancakes in front of his seat.  “Good morning, Harry.  I didn’t hear you come in last night – business went well, I presume?”

Her voice held no sign of reproof, but Harry ducked his head sheepishly. “Sorry, Andy, I should have sent a message ahead.  I was with Ron and Hermione for a bit, and then with George.  It turns out that matters regarding the Black Lordship were the least of my problems …” he began, explaining the eye-opening events of the previous day.

 

* * *

  

That his penchant for seeking out libraries was borne out of desperation didn’t take away from the love he had for the dusty abodes of knowledge. Whether he was hiding from Dudley and his goons or searching urgently for a way to overcome dragons for the Triwizard Tournament, they had always been an invaluable and welcoming refuge. 

For all its notoriety, the Black library was a truly magnificent spectacle. Contrary to the dark gloom of the rest of the manor, the room was airy and open, with tall windows lining one wall facing the morning sun.  Rows upon rows of shelves were filled with books on a range of topics from housekeeping to the darkest of the Dark Arts, and in various stages of disrepair.

Harry was leafing keenly through a worn copy on the subject of British wizarding genealogy.  When he had asked her what she knew about the Greengrasses’ connection to the Potters, Andromeda had directed him here and suggested looking for a familial link before exploring other possibilities.

Ollivander … Parkinson … Peverell … aha, Potter!  His triumph was swiftly erased at the very sobering sight. What was once a veritable legion of Potters had been decimated to the lone name in elegant print that remained at the bottom of the page: Harry James Potter.  He felt a sudden and unexpected rush of gratitude to the Mirror of Erised; if not for the image that had been reflected back at him those precious few nights all those years ago, these names may very well have been the only knowledge he had of his family.

Shaking himself from his maudlin thoughts he traced back up the tree with his finger, noting the differences between the generations as he went. 

It seemed that prior to his father, there were always at least two Potter scions at any one time.  In fact … He paused at Charlus Potter.  Next to his name was Alexandra Potter, his sister, and joined to her name was Damon Greengrass.

Suppressing the urge to whoop, Harry quickly flipped back to the Greengrass page. Finding Damon Greengrass, he followed the line down to Philander Greengrass, and further down, finally, to Daphne and Astoria Greengrass. 

He stared at the names in shock. 

When he had examined the Black family tree with Sirius, he had become peripherally aware that he was related to most pureblood families in one way or another. However, it had not occurred to him that he had any other close family relations except for Andy, Narcissa, and – he shuddered – Bellatrix.  Yet Daphne and Astoria, two girls he had shared the halls of Hogwarts with for several years, were related to him to the same degree – though neither had betrayed a hint of familiarity.  And their father, Philander Greengrass, had an even stronger tie to him, as James’ cousin.  True, cousins didn’t always have the best of bonds – his rather precarious relationship with Dudley was a case in point – but his parents would hardly have named the Greengrasses in their will without sufficient reason, would they? 

Looking back at the book, he felt a thrill of excitement.  He had actual family!  People who not only shared his blood but may also have been friends with his parents!  As the realisation sunk in, he lurched to the nearby desk and fumbled for a piece of parchment. A quill was poised over it when it struck him that he had no idea what to write. 

The giddy anticipation seeped out of him.  What could he say?  ‘Hello Mr. Greengrass, I’m Harry Potter and by the way you are my closest wizarding relative, hope you have a nice day’? 

No, a little more … finesse was required.  Silently bemoaning Hermione’s confinement, he began to write. 

 

> _Dear Mr. Greengrass,_

 

Ack – was he even correct in using ‘Mr.’?  Maybe it was supposed to be addressed to ‘Lord’ Greengrass instead? He groaned in dismay. Three words in, and he was already having problems.  

This was going to take a while.

 

* * *

 

A foot-high book on wizarding etiquette lay open in front of him, surrounded by numerous crumpled parchments filled with frustrated scribbles.  He looked down at the latest revision of his letter. 

 

> _Dear Lord Greengrass,_
> 
>  
> 
> _You may be surprised hear from me, as we have never met, nor have we become acquainted in any other manner.  Indeed, I find myself in much the same situation, as I had not ever anticipated the need of writing to you.  However, at the recent reading of my parents’ wills, it came to my attention that my parents held you and your wife in high regard. Curious, I not help but delve further – and in doing so I discovered that you are my late father’s cousin. It came as quite a shock, naturally, as I had assumed that the Blacks and their relations were all the family I had left._
> 
> _In light of this revelation, I hope you will be amenable to meeting with me sometime in the near future.  Forgive my forwardness if I have presumed incorrectly._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Harry Potter,_
> 
> _Lord Potter-Black_

 

That sounded adequate, didn’t it?  Formal without sounding like Professor Binns’ idea of a good essay. 

Well, alright or not, it would have to do.  Nodding decisively he rose from his chair, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders.  The motion caused his joints to pop so loudly that he almost didn’t notice Kreacher’s appearance.

“Mistress Black wishes for Master to be ready to leave,” the house elf informed him.

“Oh.” Harry frowned, trying to recall anything Andy had said about going out.  Surely they weren’t spending another luncheon at the Malfoys? “Did she tell you why, Kreacher?”

“Kreacher is not privy to the plans of Mistress Black,” he clucked disapprovingly. “Master’s clothes are laid out on his bed.  Would Master like Kreacher to owl his letter?”

Before he could change his mind, Harry handed the parchment over. “Yes please, Kreacher.”

When he had finished changing and arrived downstairs, he found Andy humming and rocking Teddy in her arms in front of the Floo. 

“Hey, Andy.  What’s all this about?”

She looked up at him in surprise.  “Why Harry, I thought you knew.  We’re visiting the Weasleys, of course.  Since yesterday’s plans came to an unfortunate end, it becomes incumbent upon us to fulfil our commitment at the earliest convenience.”  With that, she firmly called out “The Burrow!” and pushed him into the fireplace.

Spat out at the other end, Harry looked up to find everyone frozen comically mid-action and staring at him.  A split second of stunned silence was all the warning he had before the redheads descended upon him, their animated greetings lost in the chaos.  He was crushed into several bone-breaking hugs and had his back thumped enthusiastically, not unlike the aftermath of a Gryffindor Quidditch win.

Molly Weasley’s voice rang through the din.  “That is quite _enough_ , boys!” The hand ruffling his hair stilled, but someone was still relentlessly pinching his cheeks.  “And girl,” she added sternly.  The fingers on his face retreated reluctantly.

Opening his eyes warily, he was gratified to note that everyone had taken a step back. However, the expectant gleams in their eyes were starting to make perspiration collect at the back of his head. “Er … hello?” he ventured hesitantly.

Ginny snorted.  “Hello, he says, the prat.” 

Channelling a force that seemed unique to the female Weasleys, she placed her hands on her hips, her irate expression reminding him eerily of the time Mrs. Weasley had found Charlie sneaking dragon toenail clippings to the twins. “You have nothing else to say for yourself?  After the weeks of silent treatment to your _family_ , all you can say is ‘ _hello’_?”

As she advanced on him menacingly, his gaze darted to the fireplace. Where was Andy when he needed her?

Ginny’s arm was raised threateningly, and Harry winced; it looked like he wasn’t going to escape without bodily harm.  However, the next instant she was in his arms, clinging to him with one octopus-like limb while prodding him insistently with the other.  “You _git_! We haven’t seen you in ages! _I_ haven’t seen you in ages.  Charlie’s probably the only other one who hasn’t seen you since the battle – oh, don’t look so innocent, George, I know you saw him yesterday. What?  Now that I’m your ex-girlfriend, is our friendship no more as well?”

Harry only just heard the faint tremor in her voice.  His arms tightened around her so much that he was almost carrying her.  “I’m so sorry, Gin, I really am.”  He looked up from her hair, addressing the rest of the family.  “I know I should have come earlier, if only as support. But, well, you all remember how I was after Sirius died – exploding if anyone so much as twitched. It’s hardly an excuse, but I don’t deal well with … well, any sort of emotional upheaval, really, and this one was … bloody hell, it was horrible.”

The Weasleys remained uncharacteristically silent, eyes fixed firmly on him. Sighing, he released Ginny and wrung his fingers together nervously.  “Did Ron or George not tell you what happened?”

Multiple glares in the Weasley brothers’ direction was his only answer. “I guess not.  Obviously, you know that R-Remus and Tonks died. And on top of that … well, the long and short of it is that when I faced Voldemort” – he rolled his eyes at the collective flinch – “in the forest, I, er … _Isortofmaybedied_?” The near-incomprehensible statement ended up coming out more as a weak question as he realised that this probably wasn’t the best thing to say in Mrs. Weasley’s hearing.

And he was right.  Mrs. Weasley was in front of him so instantly that he was sure she had Apparated, her hands gripping his tightly as though reassuring herself that he wouldn’t suddenly dissolve before her eyes. 

A horrified whisper escaped her trembling lips.  “Y– you _died_?”

Her expression of abject terror twisted something inside of him. He knew, of course, that the Weasleys considered him to be one of their own – how could he not when Arthur Weasley had been the one to give him The Talk (a traumatising experience Harry never spoke of again) and almost every one of the Weasley brood had called him their “little bro” at some point or other – but to see the evidence shining from the woman who had selflessly taken on the role of a mother to him for seven years was … extremely humbling, and he found himself blinking back tears.

Hugging her with all the warmth and love he felt, he injected some levity into his voice. “Only for a little while, Mrs. Weasley!” He measured out a small distance between his thumb and forefinger for emphasis.  “I came back, didn’t I?  You’re stuck with me now, I’m afraid …”

 

* * *

 

It was at precisely the moment that Mrs. Weasley had let herself be reassured of Harry’s continued existence in the world of the living and began ushering them to the table that Andy made an appearance.  Winking discreetly at Harry, she explained that Teddy had had to be changed out of his nappies. 

Lunch at the Burrow was loud, boisterous, and full of laughter; in a nutshell, it was exactly what Harry remembered it to be, if it weren’t for the missing scratches of ‘Perfect Prefect Percy’ on the gleaming new table, or the slight pauses after George’s words as he waited unthinkingly for his sentence to be completed.

Harry leaned back in his chair, his stomach fit to burst.  Snippets of conversations floated in and out of his ears, and he listened in lazy contentment.

At the other end of the table, Bill was telling a serious Percy and Andy of the problems he was having with the goblins.

“They’re in a right state at the moment.  Will have nothing to do with any of the wizard employees until they tighten up the security further.  The hole in the ceiling of Gringotts is a stain on the pride of all the goblins – it’s a wonder they’re keeping the bank open while they work on it …”

Beside them, Charlie was gesturing wildly as he enacted the escapade that resulted in the latest burn he had acquired, a captivated Ginny and Ron hanging on his every word. Harry ducked as one enthusiastic hand whistled close by his ear.

George, sitting across from Harry, was listening patiently to Mrs. Weasley’s concerns about his long hours, which was evidently a recurring topic.

“… come home a little earlier, dear.  Why, even Ollivanders closes at nine!  At least hire an assistant, George, you’re looking far too peaky for my liking.”

George rolled his eyes.  “Mum, I hardly need _another_ assistant when Verity’s doing a perfectly good job.  Lee’s also been dropping by when he can, and besides,” he added casually, “there’s another kid that’s going to be helping out in the evenings from next week.”

Mrs. Weasley’s eyes narrowed, her motherly senses tingling in warning. “Which poor child have you roped into your shenanigans now, George?”

He shot Harry a dirty look at his sniggering.  “Just the kid that runs the junk shop by Flourish and Blotts. Y’know, that little hole where you found Auntie Muriel’s birthday gift a few years ago?  Bayern’s Bits and Bobs, I think it’s called. Anyway, he closes shop at five, and wanted some extra work.  _He_ came to _me_ ,” he stressed again, making sure his mother didn’t think he’d just up and kidnapped a new victim – er, employee.

Harry frowned.  Bayern … where had he heard that name before?

“And his parents have approved?” Mrs. Weasley asked sceptically.

“Er, the thing is … he’s an orphan, Mum.  From what I gathered, he wants to earn money so he can go to Hogwarts.”

“Oh!” Harry blushed under the quizzical looks he received at the sudden exclamation.  “Max, isn’t it?  His name, I mean.”

George raised an eyebrow.  “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“He, er, saved me from the swarming crowd that was chasing me yesterday. Showed me his shop.” He didn’t exactly get a grand tour of the place, but he saw a fair bit.  “I apparently have the questionable skill of stepping on every uncomfortably personal issue he has,” he added dolefully.

“How so?”

“Well, let’s see,” Harry said, ticking off on his fingers.  “First, I asked him where his parents were.” George winced.  “Then I asked him who he was staying with. And then, if that wasn’t enough, I asked him if he was coming to Hogwarts next year.”

George gaped at him, before breaking out into disbelieving chuckles. “M’boy, you have _talent_.  Even Ronniekins couldn’t have done worse – or better, I should say – if he’d tried.”

“Oh, the poor boy, he must be dreadfully alone,” Mrs. Weasley fretted. “Bring him over when you see him next, would you dear?  A nice, hot meal would do him a world of good.”

“’Course, Mum,” he replied.  “Mind, he’s a bit … prickly about being given things for free.  Nearly bit my head off when I said he could take home some of the Wheezes merchandise, until I told him it was just a perk of working there.”

Mrs. Weasley waved away his concerns.  “You just bring the child here, I’ll take care of the rest.”

George raised a hand to his chest in mock-reproach.  “Mum!  Think of the example you’re setting!  Telling your innocent and virtuous son to snatch away an unsuspecting little poppet for your wicked plans!  Whatever will everyone say?”

Harry coughed pointedly, grinning at Mrs. Weasley’s fondly exasperated expression. ‘Innocent’ and ‘virtuous’ certainly weren’t the words he, or anyone else, would use to describe a Weasley, especially this particular imp of a Weasley.

Mrs. Weasley suddenly rounded on him, and Harry leaned away unconsciously at her fierce glare.  “Don’t think I haven’t heard how little you’ve been eating, young man.  Skin and bones, that’s all you are now. Some fattening up will do you good too.”

Harry glanced around for some help.  He certainly wasn’t going to get it from George, who was guffawing loudly at his alarm. Thankfully, Ron came to the rescue.

“Leave off, Mum.  Harry ate quite a bit today – he even had seconds, which he usually has to be forced into eating. I’m sure with a few more of your delicious meals, he’ll be back to his usual midget-y stick-like form in no time.”

Harry opted for the mature route and stuck out his tongue.  “Like you have room to speak, you overgrown giant. Where does all that food go anyway?”

“Hey, I’m a –”

“ – Growing boy, yes, we know. …”

The afternoon passed in a similar vein with much light-hearted banter and ribbing, mixed with delighted coos and hums from a cheerful, bright-eyed Teddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is finally up! I've had over half of it written for about a month now, but for some reason I just wasn't able to get the reunion with the Weasleys right until yesterday.
> 
> This is quite late, but my condolences to the families/others affected by the Charleston shooting - I almost cried when I read about it. It breaks my heart that this kind of thing is still happening in 2015, and nothing's being done. However, in happier news, same-sex marriage is legal in America, yay! Good job, neighbours, it's been coming for a while. I've been amusing myself reading tweets of people who apparently want to pack and move to Canada because they're offended by this, when it's been legal here for a decade now ...
> 
> Knowing that there are people interested in reading what happens next is my main motivation for writing, so thanks for the lovely reviews!


	11. Chapter 11

Hermione had not, to her profound disappointment, managed to wrangle permission to accompany Harry to his appointment with Mr. Laurel.  Her parents were still reeling from the years of information that she had finally revealed to them, and were loathe to let her out of their sights.

So it was that on Monday morning, Harry was once more Cloaked in his Invisibility Cloak, threading carefully through the morning bustle.  He followed Andy’s earlier directions precisely: walk past Gambol & Japes and turn right just before Ollivander’s into Commershee Alley, keep walking until he reached Laurel and Hardy Legal House on his left, which was across from Locke & Kea Security. 

Pushing open the glass doors of the surprisingly modern-looking building, he stepped inside.

Immediately, a house-elf appeared with a crack and bowed low.  “Master Laurel is expecting you, Lord Potter. Please follow Perry.”

Harry did as he was bid, taking in the faded and softly-lit corridor as he walked. For such an austere exterior, the inside was surprisingly cosy.

Passing a door with a plaque engraved ‘Oliver Hardy, Legal Associate’, they stopped at an open doorway.  Perry announced, “Lord Potter has arrived, Master Laurel.”

The man behind the desk, whom Harry just noticed, rose and approached him. He spoke in a somewhat nasally and no-nonsense tone that reminded him of Madam Pince, the Hogwarts librarian. “Lord Potter, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Stan Laurel.”

His first impression of the man was one of scatterbrained intelligence. His grey suit was a couple of sizes too big, and though his brown hair stuck out in tufts like he had been pulling at it in frustration, Harry suspected that that was its natural state. A bronze-feathered quill stuck out from behind his ear, and a smudge of black ink was smeared on his jaw. He also, Harry noted, looked like he was made up entirely of sticks—his legs were thin and bony, his nose looked like it had been drawn out with a ruler, and his fingers were so long that they looked like they had been purposefully stretched out.

Harry shook the outstretched hand—

— _July 27, 2101, head wound_ —

—and dropped it as if burned. 

What the hell was _that_?

A voice was calling his name softly.  “Lord Potter, is everything alright?”

Looking up, he saw that Mr. Laurel was watching him closely, a small frown on his face.

“Er, yeah, sorry, just some, uh, static,” Harry said, smiling weakly at him. “And it’s just Harry, thanks.”

The man continued to scrutinise him for a moment longer, before nodding and turning to pull out a chair.  “Of course, of course.  And you must call me Stan.  Please, have a seat.”

As naturally as possible, he gave Stan a wide berth as he edged around him, keeping an uneasy eye on the man’s hand.  Had he imagined it?  But that was ridiculous.  Who ever heard of hallucinating flashes of random dates and nonsensical phrases when shaking someone’s hand?

Had Stan tried to prank him?  He dismissed the thought almost immediately.  Despite his disorderly appearance, there was a distinctly McGonagall-ish air about him, and he felt that the man would not approve of such things. Besides, he had seemed genuinely concerned at his reaction. 

Still thoroughly unnerved, Harry sank into the offered seat.

Settling back down, Stan fixed him with a piercing look that made him feel like he was a bug under a microscope.  “What can I do for you today, Harry?  I must admit that I expected to have met you much sooner—three years ago at least, if not earlier …”

Forcibly turning his thoughts away from the strange occurrence, Harry focused his attention to the question at hand.

“Well, I had an appointment with my account manager at Gringotts yesterday—the first one ever, in fact.  Something that apparently everyone except me knew I had to do,” he added bitterly, seeing the disbelieving expression on Stan’s face.  “It had not been previously known to me that I had any Lordships—or even what Lordships were—nor that I was supposed to have been tested for my inheritances.  Ironclaw—my account manager—suggested that I visit you to discuss … er … my life, I guess.”

“Hmm.” Stan eyed him shrewdly. “Your guardians have been rather remiss in informing you on such matters, I gather.  Well, since I am unaware of what particular instances the esteemed Ironclaw would like me cognisant of, perhaps we shall start at the beginning?”

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Harry had finished talking, his throat was feeling rather dry, and he felt that Stan knew him almost as well as Ron and Hermione did.  Harry couldn’t help but be impressed—not once had the man exclaimed in astonishment or interrupted in any way.  Rather, he had methodically jotted down notes as he listened, ‘hmm’-ing and ‘ah’-ing to himself quietly all the while. When Harry had finished describing his meeting with Ironclaw and the claiming of his Lordships, Stan finally put down his quill.  His gaze seemed to have become even sharper. 

“That is quite a tale, Harry.  Cerberuses, basilisks, hippogriffs, dragons, thestrals … Are you quite certain you are not secretly running a menagerie for highly magical and potentially lethal creatures?” he asked, humour colouring his voice.

“Very funny,” Harry responded drily. 

“It is, at that,” the solicitor agreed, quirking his lips briefly. “However, magical creatures aside, you have been embroiled in quite the number of life-threatening adventures in your wizarding life.  As a matter of fact, it seems to be something of a habit – a very unhealthy one, if I may say so.  Though I admit the Potters were known for a certain … proclivity for danger, none were as predisposed to it as you appear to be.”

Harry crossed his arms defensively, and grumbled, “S’not like I ask for it.” In fact, he clearly remembered an brief stint in his first year where he had firmly and consciously made the decision to avoid all hints of trouble.

Stan nodded, and Harry got the impression that he wasn’t very sympathetic to his catastrophe-attracting plight.  “No, I imagine not. Very well, before we discuss your experiences further …”

Shuffling his notes around, he pulled out a parchment. 

“I received correspondence earlier today from a Miss Granger”—Harry could not hold back a startled huff of laughter—“and she requested that I ask you about the circumstances of your stay with your relatives.  I presume you are aware of what she intended?”

Harry sighed.  Hermione was nothing if not thorough, and he really couldn’t fault her when they had already discussed his wrongful placement at the Dursleys.  Preparing himself for more questions, he gave a brief summary of the years leading up to Hogwarts.

“I see. That is where we shall start, then.  Now, while your parents did have a few people listed as potential guardians in their will, the power of blood cannot be contested, and your aunt is your closest blood relative." 

Harry gave a soft ‘oh’ of surprise.  So Dumbledore hadn’t made a mistake?

“However, had they expressed wishes to relinquish their guardianship over you, which I gather they would have desired”—Harry snorted at the understatement—“or if they had been found unsuitable, your allocation would have concluded differently. An appointed Ministry official would have made that decision based on a minimum of twice-yearly visits, and subsequently, the first of your parents’ preferred custodians would then have been considered, followed by the next thereafter if necessary. Clearly, this process had been circumvented in your case, which needs further investigation.”

Harry nodded dumbly.  He could have been free of the Dursleys far before attending Hogwarts—before primary school, even, if they had been ‘found unsuitable’ then.  Instead, he had passed ten dull and thankless years, followed by six thoroughly miserable summers, in that awful place he had been forced to call home.

“Secondly,” Stan continued, “there is the matter of the general safety of Hogwarts. Within her walls you have had encountered two thought-to-be-deceased Death Eaters, two forms of Lord Voldemort himself, and a further two teachers who have directly endangered your life—one of whom was a Ministry official.  Each one needs looking into separately, and will require accounts from your associates and any others who may have suffered by their hand. The Board of Governors need to be investigated as well for their lack of foresight and poor decision-making.”

The man was on a roll now, and Harry decided that it would be best to just sit back and listen.  He had learned through painful experience that those of scholarly persuasions were not to be interrupted unless he wanted their all of their frighteningly formidable and zealous intellect fastened onto him (he was forever grateful that the he had not been Sorted into Ravenclaw, they were bloody _terrifying_ ).

“Thirdly, members of the Ministry of Magic will have to be questioned. It seems that many—Dolores Umbridge being a particularly vicious example—have been complicit in the suppression and withholding of critical information from them public by underhanded means, including collaboration with forums such as the _Daily Prophet_.  The unjust imprisonment of the late Lord Black will also have to be dealt with.”

A self-satisfied smile crossed his face.  “It is with great pleasure that I will undertake my fourth task, which is to compile all evidence of Rita Skeeter’s slander and charge her with numerous offences, not least being the licentious use of her unregistered Animagus form. Her reputation will be in tatters.” 

Harry heard the clear ‘once I’m through with her’ that had been left unsaid. 

“There are many smaller issues to address as well, but finally, there is the worryingly constant factor of Albus Dumbledore.  Whether it be your Hogwarts years, or your lack of knowledge or testing regarding your Lordships—especially ones as important as your own—every one of your problems seem to be somehow linked to him, and I confess I find it a cause of concern.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully.  “Yeah, Ron, Hermione and I came to the same conclusion.  But he’s dead now, so I don’t see what can be done.”

Stan’s mouth was set in a grim line.  “Don’t worry, Harry.  That is what I’m paid for, after all.  It’ll all work out.”

 

* * *

 

Harry flinched violently upon entering the manor.  A shrill piercing wail was reverberating through the halls, unbroken but for soft murmurs and pacing footsteps. 

For a moment he thought that Walburga’s vitriol-spewing portrait had risen from its charred and _Evanesco_ -ed ashes. 

“Andy?” he called, padding hesitantly into the living room.

Said woman was all but running back and forth the length of the room, bouncing a red-faced, screeching Teddy.  His scrunched up face was stained with salty tear tracks, and Harry could see that his tiny fists were balled tightly.

The relief was obvious in Andy’s face when she saw him.  “Harry!  Here, hold him for a bit while I bring some damp cloths.”

Before Harry could protest or begin to formulate a question, the screaming baby was deposited into his arms and Andy was rushing up the stairs. 

“Shh, it’s okay love, it’s okay,” he whispered soothingly, resuming the gentle bouncing.

But it was no good.  Teddy’s cries were not letting up, and Harry’s ears were starting to ring.

What was the matter with him?  It was evidently not an emergency, or else Andy would have whisked him off to St. Mungo’s immediately.  What had set the poor baby off?

Unbidden, a similar incident rose to his mind.  A few weeks ago, when he had been all but a walking corpse, he recalled snatches of days where, like now, Andy had bundled Teddy into his arms and run about in a harried fashion while ordering Kreacher around frantically.

Harry looked back down at the baby.  Teddy had opened his amber eyes again, tears still spilling out of corners, and suddenly, Harry was struck by the realisation. 

Of course! It was no wonder he was distressed; the full moon was approaching in a couple of days.  Knowing that nothing was going to quiet him down for a while, Harry settled back into the sofa and continued to rock Teddy tenderly.

 

* * *

 

 

The next two days followed in a similar pattern, with both Harry and Andromeda watching over an alternately whimpering and wailing Teddy in shifts, only stopping to rest when the other took over or when Kreacher intervened and lectured them to bed. 

When the day of the full moon was finally behind them—that night had been the absolute _worst_ , with a screaming and kicking and scratching Teddy—Harry proceeded to stagger into bed and sleep half the day away.  Upon waking, he found that he was still feeling the after-effects as the smallest of tasks took far more energy than usual.  The ordeal had been much more taxing than Harry had realised, and he wondered in awe, not for the first time, how Andy had previously managed by it herself.

He shuffled tiredly to the nursery, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Poking his head in through the door, he smiled at the sight. 

Teddy was kicking his legs energetically as he swatted at the flying hippogryffs hanging over him, babbling a continuous stream of ‘babababa’s. 

“Hello, little Teddy bear!  Looks like someone’s feeling fit as a fiddle again!”  He poked the bare tummy teasingly, grinning as Teddy squirmed at the odd sensation.  “Leaving your poor Uncle Harry and Grandma Andy to lick our wounds in defeat. How could you, baby bear?”

Teddy endured the gentle tickling for a few moments longer before finally reaching out to wrap his hand around the black stone of the Peverells—

_—May 1, 2173, heart attack—_

—Harry reeled back with a cry of shock, cradling his hand disbelievingly. There it was again! That creepy voice whispering some arbitrary date and a morbid phrase.  The last time it had occurred when Stan shook his hand … He looked back apprehensively at the unassuming-looking stone.  It _had_ to be the culprit—that was the only common factor. 

The Resurrection Stone …

A sense of foreboding crept into him.  A stone whose purpose was to reanimate the dead, upon contact, divulging a date and a dark— _deadly_ —set of words …

_It couldn’t be …_

The horror, the utter revulsion that gripped him was visceral, encompassing his entire body.  Without conscious thought, he lurched back out of the nursery and into his bedroom, locking the door behind him.

His hands were still trembling as he stared at the ring, panic mounting at the realisation.

“Harry, it’s alright.”

Harry looked up to find Death sitting across from him, his jean-clad legs crossed casually. His head was tilted curiously, as though trying to figure him out.  Harry felt a bitter swell of emotion at his unconcerned demeanor and leapt to his feet.

“NO IT IS NOT!  STAN WILL DIE ON JULY 27, 2101 FROM A HEAD WOUND!  TEDDY, MY BABY GODSON, WILL DIE ON MAY 1, 2173 FROM A HEART ATTACK! TELL ME WHAT CAN MAKE THAT ALRIGHT!”

His chest heaved as he glared, at odds with the tears he knew were shining in his eyes.

“You accepted your duties, Harry.  From that moment, your mastery over the Hallows is undisputed, now and forevermore. It—”

“I DON’T WANT THEM!” he bellowed.  “TAKE THEM BACK!  AS YOUR MASTER, I ORDER YOU TO TAKE THEM BACK!”

Death continued to watch him calmly. 

Harry valiantly resisted the urge to fling a book at him.

“It cannot be done, Harry, and you know it as well as I do.  Whenever the Stone comes in contact with skin, you will be told of when and how they are destined to die.  That is not something I can control; I cannot subvert its true nature.”

The fight seeped out of him abruptly, and Harry plopped back onto his bed. His mind was still scrambling, however; he refused to believe that a shiny rock had defeated him.

He ran over Death’s words again: ‘Whenever the Stone comes in contact with skin, you will be told of when and how they are destined to die.’

When the Stone comes in contact with skin.

He smirked triumphantly at Death.  “Then I just won’t let anyone touch it.  Can’t be too hard—I spent a day being hugged by Weasleys and not one of them even brushed it.  In fact …” He paused, struck by an idea. His arm was already reaching for his holly wand, when it occurred to him that there was another one that might be better suited to the task.

No sooner than the thought materialised had the Elder Wand appeared in his hand. “ _Repello Cutis*_ ,” he intoned, pointing the Wand at the Stone. “There.  Now no one will touch it, unless I _Finite_ the spell.  Which I won’t.”  He raised his eyebrow smugly at Death in a ‘you were saying?’ sort of gesture.

Death’s expression of chagrin and bemusement provoked great hilarity in Harry. A second later, the immortal being joined in, laughing helplessly.

“Oh, Harry.  I cannot thank myself enough for having chosen you as my Master.  Every time I assume I understand you, you prove me wrong. It is clear that there isn’t be a dull moment to be had with you around.”

Harry scoffed.  “More like you’ll join the multitude of people who have credited their grey hairs to me. You sure you don’t want to rethink the whole Harry-Potter-as-Master-of-Death thing?  Because I’m not convinced it’s worth the trouble, considering I get into an average of—what was it that Hermione said?—‘an average of 4.7 life threatening situations more than regular human beings every year, Harry James Potter!’.  Though I guess since I can’t actually die, you’ll be less worried,” he mused.

“Maybe that will temper Ron’s and Hermione’s concern too …”

 

* * *

 

 

After gingerly testing the Resurrection Stone on Teddy again—because apparently his own skin would never repel a Hallow when he was its master, despite also being the master of the Elder Wand that had cast the Repelling Spell—Harry was able to function as normal again. 

As soon as Death’s weighty presence had disappeared, Kreacher had popped in with “post for Master Harry.”

Among the letters was a roll with an unfamiliar seal.  Opening it, he quickly skipped to the bottom.

‘Sincerely, Philander Greengrass.’

A mix of eagerness and trepidation, he began to read.

 

> _Dear Lord Potter-Black,_  
> 
> _May I first congratulate you on receiving your Lordships.  I have no doubt that you will continue to bring pride to both families._
> 
> _Though unexpected, I assure you that I am gratified to hear from receive your letter.  Your actions and questions are understandable, and there is much to tell.  However, such matters are not for discussion over written correspondence. Therefore, it would give me great pleasure if you accept my invitation for dinner at the Greengrass Manor on Saturday. Feel free to bring anyone you may wish._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Philander Greengrass,_
> 
> _Lord Greengrass_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, an update! Angsty Harry is back! … Not that he had ever left in the first place. Showers are the god-given gift for stuck authors, I swear. Half of this chapter just flowed out after my shower yesterday, and I also have new ideas for fics. Aaand I found old stories in my files that I’m thinking of tweaking and continuing. So yeah, feelin’ pretty good :)
> 
> *Cutis = skin in latin (apparently)
> 
> I know zip about legal stuff, and I’m also really bad at it, so if any of you have some kind of law background, please forgive my atrocious depiction of Harry’s issues.
> 
> Please leave a review with your thoughts! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, “____” are spoken words and ‘____’ are mental conversations … I realised I’d been operating under the assumption that everyone somehow knew how my brain worked, sorry about that …

Harry groaned.

Something—a battering ram?—was pounding the inside of his skull incessantly, making it impossible to think beyond the dull throbbing.  Even looking up from his chest—not that he could exactly see, what with his eyelids trying to emulate lead weights—took too much effort, and he only succeeded in making bolts of sharp pain lance through his head. He tried to bring his hands up to rub his temples—anything to soothe the ache—and realised, to his alarm, that they were stuck. 

Rope bit into his wrists when he pulled at them again.  _Shit_.

He was starting to get the distinct impression that things weren’t exactly rainbows and sunshine at the moment.

Slowly, forcing his brain to cooperate, he took stock of the state of his body.

He was sitting on what felt like a wooden chair, his wrists bound behind him and his ankles secured to the legs of the seat (trying to stand was a monumentally stupid idea, he learned).  When he was finally able to wrest his eyes open, he was looking into the dark cloth of a blindfold.

Absurdly, he was overcome by the urge to laugh.  How messed up was his life that a kidnapping was a run-of-the-mill occurrence rather than one that elicited panicked screams and frantic escape attempts?

And how was he going to get any help?  As far as Andy knew, he had gone to do some shopping in Diagon Alley, and would not be expected back for a few hours yet … Another worrisome thought occurred to him. How long had he been unconscious for?  Maybe Andy and the Weasleys, who had possibly mobilised the remainder of the Order, were losing it at his unexplained disappearance.  He needed to figure a way out of here fast—or at least send word to them to assuage their more dire concerns.

But his hands were tied—literally—and even if he somehow managed to Houdini his way out of the bindings, he would have to find his wand, which he could not feel in his back pocket.  Oh, but there was another wand that he could summon …

Death! Why didn’t he think of that?

‘Indeed, Harry.  I do hope you grow to become more familiar with my presence in your life; after all, I do have aeons of knowledge that are at your beck and call.’

Harry didn’t even bother to roll his eyes.  ‘Yes, Death, _blah blah_ Master of Death _blah blah …_ I get it. Now, some help would be greatly appreciated here.’

‘I am not certain what ideas you have of my powers, Harry, but I am not omnipotent. My control is limited strictly to the land of the dead.  There is very little I am able to do short of informing you of when and how your captor will die … Actually …’ Death petered out.

‘Yes?’

Harry could almost hear the frown.  ‘This is most unusual.  I am … unable to perceive whether he or she will die at all, let alone the circumstances of their death.  It is as if … it is as if they are not in possession of a soul …’

Harry did not have a good feeling about this.

‘No, that is not quite right.  It is not that they do not have a soul; rather, their body does not house the _correct_ soul.  How strange …’

Would banging his head against a wall elicit clearer answers?  He half-expected an offering of lemon drops and tea next.  ‘Well, then whose soul is in that body?  And whose soul is _supposed_ to be in that body?’

‘That is the question, isn’t it,’ Death murmured thoughtfully.  ‘The existence of life has rules to be followed, the most basic one being that the body determines the soul, and conversely, the soul determines the body.  That is why, even with the piece of Voldemort’s soul in your body, you were still Harry Potter—because your body was that of Harry Potter, and you still had the soul of Harry Potter.  However, this individual does not have even an iota of the soul that their body was born with, and therefore, I am unable to ascertain the name of the body. We are in quite a pickle.’

That … actually made a surprising amount of sense, but Harry’s predicament wasn’t any closer to being solved.  ‘Alright, so you can’t tell who this mystery person is.  Can you at least describe them to me?’

‘Harry, when I said that I am constrained to the dead, that is exactly what I meant. The realm of the living is not one that I am able to interact with at all, save for the souls that cross over into my dominion.  My connection to you is the only exception—anything you experience, I can observe as well.’

Nope, Harry decided, he took it all back.  None of this made a lick of sense after all.  ‘But … you said … your knowledge …’

Death snorted at his confusion.  ‘The knowledge I have amassed over the millennia came from those who died. When they enter my domain, every moment that they have seen and experienced and learnt is shared with me. Yours is the only mind and body that is open to me while it is still among the living.  If you obtain a visual image of your elusive jailor, I will be able to do the same.  However, given the state you are in, I doubt the likelihood of such an occurrence in the near future.’

Aware that he was acting unreasonable, Harry grumbled, ‘So, essentially, there’s nothing you can do.  Great.’

A silky voice cut through his thoughts.  “I see that you are awake.”

Harry jerked his head up, and moaned again at the fresh wave of pain. Gritting his teeth, he spat, “What do you want?”

“Now, Harry, haven’t your parents taught you to be polite to your host?” As soon as he spoke, the man gasped theatrically. 

A haze of fury had descended on Harry, and he clenched his fists so tightly that his tendons pressed outward into the rough rope restricting his wrists.

“Oh dear, they couldn’t have, could they?  James and Lily have long departed this world, and your _Muggle_ relatives could hardly teach you manners when the species as a whole barely qualify as animals themselves.”

Harry could feel the perverse satisfaction emanating from the man with each word. Taking a deep breath to reign in his temper, he asked, “Who are you?”

There was a pregnant pause, before his captor said, “You may call me Goodman.”

Harry leaned back in surprise; ‘Goodman’ had moved much closer to him, so close that he could feel his breath on his face.  His hair was pushed back abruptly, and a cool finger traced the faint remains of his lightning blot scar.  Without warning, Goodman’s hands crushed his shoulders in a brutal grip.

A growl sounded in his ear.  “Where is the Elder Wand?”

Of all the reasons he had expected to be behind his abduction, this was one that hadn’t even occurred to him.  It should have, though.  Why, _why_ , had he emulated Voldemort’s ridiculous self-absorbed speeches and flaunt his ownership of the Elder Wand in front of an audience?  Really, he had only himself to blame this time.

“I don’t know,” Harry stated.

Goodman shook him violently, panting breaths falling heavy against Harry’s face. “Where.  Is.  The. _Wand_?”

“I _said_ , I don’t kno—”

A backhand across his jaw cut him off.  As he tried to blink away the stars swimming around him, he was faintly amused to note that Death was beginning to resemble Kreacher, muttering malevolent threats under his breath about “not being fit to wipe his Master’s boots”.

A cold, maniacal laugh erupted from Goodman.  “Well, I’ll just have to force it out of you, won’t I? Your stubborn nature is quite well-known, so I came prepared.  Let’s see if a little Truth Serum won’t loosen your tongue, eh?”

Damn it all, how was he going to get himself out of this fix?

Surprisingly smooth hands pried his mouth open, and Harry felt the brief imprint of the man’s ring against his skin.  Tasteless drops fell on his tongue, and the rigid set of his back went suddenly lax. 

Death whispered urgently in his mind as Goodman gloated in prideful delight. ‘Do not reply immediately. When he asks a question, think of how it can be answered without giving him what he wants.  Although Veritaserum will compel you more forcefully to respond the longer you leave it, it does not technically have a time limit. Use your brain, Harry; I know for a fact that you have a very astute one.’

“Let’s begin, shall we?” Goodman spoke gleefully.

“No,” Harry answered.  Death groaned. “Let’s not.”

Another hard blow later, Goodman continued pleasantly, “You would do well to mind your tongue, Harry.  Now, where is the Elder Wand?”

From his detached mind, Harry realised that actually, he _didn’t_ know where the Wand was.  Sure, he could summon it with a thought—no, not now, thanks—but where exactly was it at this very moment?

“I don’t know,” he said, and heard an irate snarl.

“Didn’t you use it to defeat Voldemort?” Goodman exclaimed.

Hmm, how to answer this one?  Taking great care to irritate his captor some more, of course.  “To some degree.”

“To some—” Some presumably glass item crashed reverberatingly into a wall in his general vicinity.  After a string of creative, if menacing curses, Goodman said, “Explain, in detail, what you mean by ‘to some degree’.”

Something wasn’t adding up.  More so than he had initially thought, what with being held prisoner by a madman who apparently had some weird spiritual malfunction.  Why was he being asked to clarify what he had already shamefully bragged about to Voldemort and the rest of the people in the Great Hall of Hogwarts on that fateful day?  For some reason, Goodman didn’t know exactly what had happened, which meant that he likely hadn’t been there to witness it. 

Harry thought back to what Mr. Weasley had told him about the aftermath. Apparently, everyone in Hogwarts had been rounded up almost immediately after Voldemort’s death, and in an effort to arrest the spread of the knowledge of the potentially dangerous magic that he had revealed, an Unbreakable Vow had been extracted from everyone that forbade them from disclosing the events in any form to anyone who was not there at the time.  Therefore, only those present then knew the exact circumstances of the Dark Lord’s demise beyond ambiguous statements such as “Harry Potter vanquished He Who Must Not Be Named in a heroic battle”. 

Which begged the question: if Goodman hadn’t been there, how did he know that the Wand had been used by Harry to defeat Voldemort, or that it even existed?

The vague tugging was becoming more insistent, and Harry decided to reply plainly.

“I did not physically use the Elder Wand to beat Voldemort.  Instead, I duelled him using the wand that had previously Disarmed the Elder Wand, which overpowered it.”

“So you are its current master.”

Harry remained silent.

Goodman shook him again.  “Well?”

“Well, what?” Harry inquired cordially.  Death coughed something along the lines of “cheeky brat”.

“WHERE IS IT?” Goodman roared, finally losing patience.  “WHERE IS THE ELDER WAND?”

“I don’t know,” he recited blandly.

Goodman’s ferocious rage was palpable.  Harry could imagine him glaring daggers of hatred at him, a blood vessel ready to burst.

He heard a deep inhale.  “Fine,” Goodman choked out reluctantly.  “Let’s try something else then.  I noticed you’re wearing the Resurrection Stone.”

Harry froze.  Morgana’s lace garters, but this was bad.

“The ring would not come off,” the man continued, and Harry could hear the voice starting to move around to his back.  “Not with an _Accio_ or any other spells, and it remained unyielding when pulled.”

Mind racing, Harry considered his meagre options before landing on one. ‘Death, could you make the ring disappear back to wherever the Cloak and Wand are?  Without informing me of their location, of course.’

A slight tingle warmed his finger before the band of skin was exposed to the air.

“What I want to know is—”  He had evidently caught sight of his bare dight, and the resulting strangled noise that arose from behind him was immensely gratifying.

Until hands constricted his throat. 

“Where is it?” Goodman hissed.

“Where is what?”

To his relative relief, his throat was released and Goodman was breathing in his face again.  “Where is the Resurrection Stone?”

“I don’t know,” Harry repeated, suppressing a smug smirk.  It just warmed him right to the cockles of his heart to get under the skin of this raving lunatic.  Seized by an impulsive recklessness, he was able to override the effects of the Veritaserum enough to arrange his facial muscles into an expression of polite concern.  “Mr. Goodman, I would suggest setting up an appointment with a Healer as soon as possible—”

‘For the love of all that is dead and dying, Harry, _please_ desist!’ Death interjected, his tone just this side of begging.

“—because I’m sorry to say your hearing’s shot to hell if you didn’t hear me say the first few times that _I don’t know_.”

An almost shocked silence echoed around him.  Harry got the impression that if he could, Death would be trying to strangle the life out of him. 

Or possibly just gag him for the rest of eternity. 

Said immortal was ranting, and quite melodramatically at that.  ‘Is this some pigheaded attempt at revenge? Trying to prove that you can in fact be killed even though you are Master of Death?  Because you might actually—’ 

Harry barely registered another explosion of pain at the back of his head, before succumbing once more to blackness.

 

* * *

 

Harry’s head felt like one giant bruise, and he could barely string together a single thought.

He really had to stop waking up like this.

Slowly, he became aware of a coarse surface— _gravel_ , his brain supplied—cutting into his cheek.  A voice was speaking in his ear, far too loudly and closely for him to do more than whimper and push away feebly. 

Push! His arms were free again! He heaved himself up into a sitting position, only to clutch his head in misery as he tried to steady himself. When he was reasonably sure that he wouldn’t fall flat on his face, he opened his eyes.  Someone was crouching beside him, and Harry squinted, attempting to make out his features. 

A pair of glasses were shoved into his hand.  “Here, you probably need these.”

As soon as he put them on, a sigh of relief escaped him.  The spasms of pain had receded into an ache at the back of his head, relatively simple to ignore in the face of being able to see again.  Blond hair and blue eyes sharpened into view.

“You! You’re the kid from Diagon! Max!”

The boy, Max, looked like he couldn’t decide whether he was offended to be called a kid, or embarrassed at being caught staring.

“Er, yeah.  You alright?” Almost immediately he winced. “I mean, of course you’re not. I should take you to St. Mungo’s. I was going to, but I couldn’t carry you inside to the Floo and without an Apparition licence I couldn’t transport you that way either,” he babbled, a red tinge spreading down his neck.

Harry held up his hand, as much to stop the torrent of words as to spare his still sensitive ears.  “It’s fine, really. Probably a good thing you didn’t, to be honest.  The _Prophet_ would’ve had a field day if they caught sight of me like this, and likely as not funeral preparations would already have been underway all around the country.”

Still looking uncertain, Max tugged at the hem of his shirt nervously. “You’re sure?  Your head’s …” he trailed off, gesturing uselessly.

“I’m aware,” Harry acknowledged wryly.  “It rather feels like a particularly vigorous carpentering apprenticeship’s taking place inside.”

Max flushed deeper, and Harry was struck by how young he looked.  At least it was an improvement from their last encounter, when the kid had been liable to rip his head off every time Harry opened his mouth.

“Where are we?” he asked suddenly.  Looking around what seemed to be a back alley, he could make out a general disarray of storage boxes and garbage cans.

“Behind my shop,” Max said.  “I was just closing up for the night when I heard the crack of an Apparition so I came out to look.  You were lying here facedown, clearly unconscious and with blood on your shirt.”  His brow furrowed, and he muttered, “Dunno what I’d have done if you hadn’t woken up.”

Harry grunted.  “Well, I’ll get out of your hair now,” he said, trying to get to his feet, only to sway precariously. Max rushed to his side and shouldered some of his weight, wrapping an arm bracingly around his waist.

“You’re sure?” he asked again.  “I could …”  Blond brows furrowed as he realised there wasn’t really much he _could_ do.

“It’s fine,” Harry waved off.  “Just get me to your Floo and I’ll figure out the rest.  Come on,” he said, teetering again as he took a step forward.

The arm around him tightened, and the pair shuffle-wobbled inside clumsily. Thankfully, the Floo was not two feet away from the doorway, and he planted his feet firmly in front of the fire as Max extricated his arm.

Harry took a pinch of Floo powder from the strangely pattered fishbowl on the mantelpiece, before turning back to Max.

“Thanks again,” he smiled, scratching his head ruefully.  “It’s too bad we only seem to meet when I’m in danger. Hopefully, the next time will be more favourable.”

He received a shy smile in return.  “Don’t worry about it—wasn’t really much use in the end, was I?  If you’re in a life-threatening situation again, you know where to crash.  Er, not literally.” 

“Cheers,” Harry grinned, and threw the powder into the flames.  “Number twelve Grimmauld Place!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I seem to be saying this a lot lately (or as 'lately' as my last update can be considered) but I’m so sorry for the dry spell recently! This chapter has been an absolute nightmare, mostly because I had no idea how to begin bridging the gap between where I am in the story to where I need to get to. Thankfully I was once again inspired and dealt with this monster over the last few days (rather than the month that I had left this story). But I did manage to do some other writing, so I can’t say I’m entirely disappointed.
> 
> In other news, Australia has a new Prime Minister! My Aussie friends are utterly thrilled, as he’s been a douchebag over his thankfully very short term. Fingers crossed that the Canadian PM (who is besties with that guy) will head out the same way at next month’s election!
> 
> Reviews are loved! Also, I don’t I’ve mentioned it on this fic, but prompts are always welcome, as I’ve got a drabble dump set up as well :)


	13. Chapter 13

From his position on the floor, Harry could only grumble his irritation for all forms of wizarding travel that wasn’t flying.  Before he could do more than consider the merits of a free-falling Ford Anglia over the whirlwind of limbs that was the Floo, a crack sounded next to his head.

“Mistress Black is—Master!  Master is bleeding!” 

Kreacher disappeared and was back before he could blink.  A warm, damp cloth was placed to the back of his head; removing the blood, he presumed. 

As the house-elf continued cleaning his wound, he had taken to his habitual muttering with vigour.  “Master is going to be death of poor old Kreacher, oh yes he is.  Kreacher has not needed to worry so much since Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord, and Master Regulus has always had more sense than Master’s brash recklessness.”  His tirade devolved into indistinct mumbling, with only the odd “stress” and “Gryffindor” audible.

“P-Harry, what’s taking so—Merlin’s saggy bollocks, Potter, what did you get yourself into now?”

Harry lifted his head a few inches at the familiar voice, disregarding Kreacher’s disgruntled griping.  “Draco? What are you doing here?”

Said blond had his eyebrow raised sardonically, though his eyes showed a touch of concern.  “Mother and I were visiting for a spot of tea with Aunt Andromeda; clearly we should prepare ourselves for far more adventurous times ahead if a mere social call results in a bloodied and incapacitated Harry Potter.”

Sneering, Harry pushed himself up on his arms, only to be held firmly down by his stubborn elf, who scolded him disapprovingly.  “Master will lay still while Kreacher finishes wiping and bandaging, and Master will _stay_ still until Mistress Black allows Master to move.”

At Kreacher’s fierce glare, Harry swallowed his rising protests.  Helpless, he lay there at the house-elf’s surprisingly tender mercy, watched over by an amused Draco. 

Harry scowled.

By the time that the wound had been appropriately dressed and inspected by a shaky but efficient Andy, with a troubled Narcissa hovering nearby, Harry was more than ready to throw his hands in the air and stalk off—presuming he would be allowed to his feet, of course.

“Andy,” he said finally, proud that his frustration hadn’t leaked into his voice, “I’m sure you’ve done a marvellous job fixing me up, and I promise I’ll take it easy for the rest of the day, but surely I can at least sit up now? And is that Teddy I hear crying?” he added, looking hopefully up at her. 

Andromeda regarded him with a stern expression, though her lips twitched briefly at his antics.  Harry gave an internal sigh of relief as she acquiesced and swept off to soothe Teddy. At least those years under Madam Pomfrey’s possessive care had done some good; he was now equipped with tricks to melt the hearts of the most relentless of Healers, which he used indiscriminately without the slightest remorse.  How else was he supposed to escape their evil, dastardly clutches anyway?

As he moved to his feet, he realised that Draco and Narcissa were still watching him closely, no doubt waiting for him to pitch over and collapse back onto the floor. 

“Er, sorry about that, Narcissa, Draco.  I’m sure your next visit will be much less … eventful …”

Narcissa inclined her head in an assessing gaze.  “There is nothing to apologise for, though I hope you will not be making a practice of such dramatic entrances.” 

Harry barely refrained from snorting; he was being lectured by a _Malfoy_ who had been born a _Black_ about his theatrics, when drama was practically in their blood.

“Our main purpose for today’s visit was to congratulate you in person on your inheritance—several noteworthy Lordships, I am told.  As a member of the Black family, I, and to an extent Draco, will be affected by any decisions you make as Lord Black, and are required to answer to them accordingly.  I trust that you will steer the family in a befitting and propitious direction.”

Her carefully worded suggestion had him both amused and a little indignant, as it did nothing to disguise the message: to use his brain so that he didn’t land them all in hot water with his thoughtless and rash actions.

“Of course. I will do my utmost to ensure that my deeds are given due consideration and will be beneficial to us all. Doubtless, your knowledge and advice will be invaluable at such times.”

Her eyes turned steely for a second before warming significantly. “There was never a doubt in my mind about your competence, Harry.  With the manner in which you carry yourself, our future relations show a lot of promise.”

Very carefully avoiding eye-contact with Draco, Harry nodded and returned her smile.  “Your faith in me is flattering, Narcissa, and I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

 

* * *

 

In the following hours (during which he felt more kinship with a trussed up turkey than a human being), Harry was forced to come to a couple of unpleasant conclusions.  One, there was no conceivable way he would be able to peel himself out of his cage—er, cocoon—of blankets and sneak away to the Greengrasses for dinner the next day. Andy had addressed a missive to them saying as much—at her satisfied flourish of a signature, Harry could only hope that he would be allowed to attend in a few days.

The second, and more worrying verdict, was that his mysterious captor had not been kind enough to return his holly wand to his person before dropping off his unconscious form behind Diagon Alley.  Harry’s determination to keep the existence of the Elder Wand a secret meant that it was imperative to acquire a new wand.  However, Andy seemed to find this predicament less of an issue, airily suggesting that they owl Ollivander to request a house visit for a ‘wand fitting’.

Which was why the wandmaker was currently entering his bedroom, his inquisitive eyes flitting about, taking in Harry’s reclining position in the bed before closing the door behind him.

“Running into trouble again, Mr. Potter?  One might assume that the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be the last of such hazardous occurrences for a while.”

Harry shrugged sheepishly.  “That’s actually part of the reason why I need a new wand, actually. My wand was taken away from me during this last encounter, so I’m in need of another one.”

Ollivander eyed him shrewdly, bright eyes fixed on his face.  “Once again, you present a fascinating conundrum. How curious that you require another when you are already the owner of a second wand.”

At his words, Harry’s mouth fell open.  The eerie feeling he had gotten during his very first visit to the wand shop—that the man was able to glean his every secret—was still present, especially under the scrutiny of the silvery gaze.

“Er …” With any other person, Harry would have denied the accusation point-blank and possibly fabricated an elaborate lie to explain away the strangeness.  However, he knew that with Ollivander, who seemed to have a sixth sense for … well, anything and everything about his customer, really … Harry was struck by the uncomfortable realisation that he would have to divulge the truth.

“I can’t very well use my second wand in public, Mr. Ollivander,” he said, taking a deep breath, “when it is the Elder Wand.”

In the silence that followed, Harry couldn’t help the smug satisfaction at finally having rendered the seemingly omniscient wizard speechless.

But Ollivander quickly regained his bearings.  “The Elder Wand, you say?  Hmm, that does pose something of a quandary.  Very well, I shall match you with another wand, though I do look forward to seeing your holly wand returned to your possession, as it is one of my better creations.”  Pulling out a purple, sequined purse from his robes, he held it open in front of Harry.  “The wood first, I think.  Go on,” he prompted, seeing Harry’s hesitant look.

As Harry stuck his arm into the magically expanded bag and rummaged through what felt like piles of twigs, Ollivander continued to speak.  “I have brought with me a selection of carved woods that are more likely to suit you, which turned out to be rather a hefty amount. One amongst the assortment should fit in your palm better than the rest.  Once you have the body of the wand, as it were, we can proceed to the core.” 

Just as he had described, Harry felt his fingers close around one that felt like its natural home was in his hand.  He pulled it out, taking his first look at what would be his wand.

The first thing he noted was the colour; unlike his holly wand, the wood was a deep burnished red, with streaks of darker and lighter reds running through it. It was also slightly longer, but not by much.  Holding the empty wand was strange, though, like returning after summer break to the unnaturally spotless Gryffindor dorm.

“I always find a second fitting to be even more enlightening than the first, and you are no exception, Mr. Potter.  It is quite interesting to see how much you have changed since the first time you held a wand.  Apple and red oak—yes, two woods, though it may not seem so.  And I cannot take credit for the craftsmanship, as I had found both pieces of wood already shaped in such a way that they fit together remarkably like puzzle pieces—so well that even I cannot say now where one ends and the other begins.  Twelve inches, as opposed to your previous eleven, and less supple, though not rigid.” His eyes glowed vibrantly, piercing Harry’s own.  “Yes, rather intriguing …”

Harry was starting to feel distinctly ill at ease, when Ollivander clapped his hands together.  “On to the core now, though I do not foresee any surprises there.”  Retrieving his purse of woods, he returned it to his robes and pulled out another, similarly decorated pouch of blue, and opened it in offering.

Once again, Harry’s arm was swallowed whole by the bag, though a tingle ran up his arm almost immediately.  Retracting his arm, he was comforted by the sight of a familiar-looking phoenix feather sitting in his palm.

“Yes, rather as I expected.  Not a tail-feather from the late headmaster’s companion, however, as Fawkes only ever gave two.”

Giving a practiced flick, the feather merged with the wood.  “There you are, Mr. Potter—your wand,” he said, presenting it to Harry.

Warmth suffused his fingers, and a swish saw silver sparks flowing out of the tip smoothly.  Harry sighed in relief at the feeling—he hadn’t realised how vulnerable he had felt without a wand in his hand until now.  Ollivander’s mouth curved into a delighted grin, and he clapped again in congratulations.

After accepting the seven Galleons in payment, the wandmaker bowed himself out of the room.  Behind the door, Harry heard Andy conversing pleasantly with him as she escorted him back to the Floo.

‘A handsome wand, that.  Impressive, even. I’d be careful with it if I were you.’

Harry made a face.  ‘Someone needs to put a bell on you.  Some warning would be nice, you know—my mind’s not a free-for-all you can just waltz in and out of as you please.  Besides, don’t you have work to do?  Ferrying souls into the afterlife and the like?’

‘As entertaining as ever, my Master is.  And unappreciative, too.  If Master would be amenable to hearing a suggestion from his humble servant?’

‘Prat,’ Harry rolled his eyes.  ‘What were you thinking?’

Death adopted a more serious tone.  ‘Well, seeing as, barring your family, only your captor and the venerable wandmaker know of your missing wand, and considering how eye-catching your new wand is, it might be pragmatic to spell this one into a replica of your old one. It might even confuse your kidnapper, although I doubt it would be for very long.’

Deliberating on the advice, Harry realised that Death made a valid point. Using the freshly appeared Elder Wand, he incanted the spell to transfigure his newly acquired wand, leaving him with an identical copy of his holly wand.  Even he himself was impressed; every detail was incorporated, down to the scorch marks from Hagrid’s Blast-Ended Skrewts. 

‘Thanks, Death.’

‘Now he values my input,’ Death mock-grumbled, and before Harry could ask him to entertain him a while longer, his head was empty once more. 

With a long, dull night to look forward to, Harry bade Kreacher bring him a book on pureblood etiquette and settled in for a quiet read.

 

* * *

 

Harry tapped his foot nervously, watching the minute hand creep closer to six. In a few moments, he would finally be meeting what was left of his family of blood.

Family.

Six innocuous letters that encompassed the unattainable perfection that his heart had yearned for for as long as he could remember. 

Everyone he knew, from his Hogwarts peers to the Dursleys, had aspirations—for money, a big house, holidays to exotic destinations, to get a promotion … Maybe he was being naïve, but none of those things held a candle to his burning desire for a group of people—and not necessarily a large one—to call his own.  The Weasleys were the epitome of everything he had wished for, and no matter how much they cared for him, he knew that they would never completely understand the magnitude of the pure love and gratitude he had for them, for their easy acceptance of an orphaned boy into their already crowded fold.

He was lucky, far luckier than many, as he had his own makeshift patchwork of individuals that had formed around him—Ron, Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, Luna, Neville … even Hagrid.  But there was still … something, something extremely appealing about having people that were irrevocably, beyond all shadow of doubt, connected to him in perpetuity.

Fate certainly worked in mysterious ways—or at least had an ironic sense of justice—for how else could he, after having had no family during the portion of his life where it was most important, suddenly find himself with more relatives than he knew what to do with? 

The clock flashed ‘Time to leave’.  Taking a deep, calming breath, he stepped into the Floo, shouted “Greengrass Manor”, and was whisked away.  A pair of hands shot out to steady him at the other end, and Harry added a mark to his mental tally of successfully vertical landings.  When he was let go, he found himself looking into pale blue eyes, with generous laugh lines around the sides.  With his wavy blond hair and elegant features, he evoked an image of classic attractiveness not unlike that of Gilderoy Lockhart, but with a more carefree and good-natured countenance.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, blushing.

“Not at all, Lord Potter-Black,” the man smiled genially.  “Why, I recall requiring special lessons to master the Floo myself, with a devil-sent tutor who insisted that not only was it necessary to land on my feet, it had to be accomplished with a book balanced on my head.”  He shuddered, shaking of the memory. 

A dark-haired, stately woman stepped up beside him, resting her hand gently on his.  “But enough about my youthful misadventures.  I am Philander Greengrass, and this is my wife, Sloane Greengrass.  Welcome to Greengrass Manor, the first of many harmonious gatherings, to be sure.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Lord Greengrass, Lady Greengrass,” Harry replied, executing the formalities he had read about only yesterday.  “And please, Harry is more than sufficient. Andy—Andromeda—conveys her regards; she suggested that perhaps our it would be more appropriate for our first meeting to be with just myself.  My apologies for being unable to attend on Saturday—unforeseen circumstances demanded my immediate attention.”  Like being bound to the bed by a merciless Black woman and an equally diabolical house-elf.

Lord Greengrass waved away his explanation lightly, and though Harry could tell that he was curious about what said circumstances entailed, he did not comment further. “You must return the courtesy and call us Philander and Sloane, Harry, lest I mistake you for my old tutor,” he winked. “And now that we have observed these stuffy medieval niceties adequately, let us adjourn for some dinner,” he grinned, escorting Harry into the dining hall with a slight ‘after you’ gesture.

As he stepped into the thankfully modest dining room, the two Greengrass daughters rose from their chairs in greeting.  “Lord Potter-Black,” they curtsied. 

It was all he could not to cringe in horror.  “Harry, please.”  He really wasn’t above begging.  Or deciding that being force-fed vile concoctions meant to ‘heal’ would actually be a better use of his time.  “Daphne and Astoria, right?”

Exchanging an almost indiscernible glance between them, they nodded in acceptance, before retaking their seats.

“Please, take a seat,” Philander motioned.  Harry did so, taking in the room. 

Although he only had the Black and Malfoy manors for comparison, he was certain that this was not a typical pureblood setting.  The space was not capable of easily fitting in three Privet Drive living rooms, for one.  The paintings and other décor were also simple and unassuming … And he was sitting at an intimately-sized round table, meaning that it had no head. Tension he hadn’t been aware of dissipated from his shoulders.  Maybe he wouldn’t offend his newly discovered family with atrociously botched manners and customs after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, new chapter! And before a month had passed, I’m glad to see. I’m sorry to say, however, that I likely won’t have an update until sometime in December, as the next couple of months is full of assignments and exams, culminating in an exam that encompasses everything I’ve learned in the last two years … Sometimes I really question my sanity for deciding to study medicine …
> 
> I love delving into the detail that JKR has created in terms of wandlore and stuff, which you can see in the whole wand fitting process. For those interested, the significance of those particular woods and cores can be looked up in the Harry Potter wiki (harrypotter . wikia . com / wiki / wandlore).
> 
> Please review! I read and respond to every single one (barring the Guest comments, which I can’t reply to but still read and appreciate), and truly appreciate your thoughts! :)
> 
> (Oh, and if I have any of-age Canadian readers, please vote if you haven’t already!)


	14. Chapter 14

**-June 16, 1998-**

As the food was being served by discreet house-elves, Sloane turned to him. “I hear from my daughters that you have had some very eventful years at Hogwarts? Even beyond the questionable reports printed in the _Daily Prophet_ , which I find quite hard to believe.”

Harry chuckled self-consciously. “Er, yeah, eventful is definitely one way to put it. Everything was so new, and combined with the fact that Voldemort”—he peeked at them covertly—“er, You-Know-Who, kept trying to off me, I certainly couldn’t say I was bored.”

Sloane ‘hmm’-ed. “Excluding last year’s … situation, there was an abundance of public attention on you during your … fourth and fifth years, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, an embarrassed flush burning his cheeks as he thought back to those years and the ridiculous propaganda that they had no doubt read. “The Triwizard Tournament … happened, and I was … contracted to participate, and—”

“What do you mean, ‘contracted’?” The question was blurted out by Astoria, who immediately looked like she wanted to sink into the floor. For some reason, Harry was reminded of Ginny, and he fought the urge to smile.

“Well, you would have seen it all, wouldn’t you? The goblet spit out my name, so I had to compete.”

It looked like the youngest Greengrass’ inquisitiveness overrode her mortification. “But you knew what you were getting into when you put your name in, so it couldn’t exactly have been a chore …”

In the face of her almost childlike eagerness, the query did not spark his anger, despite having had to explain himself countless times during that truly dismal year. “Considering that I did not enter my name, I can safely say that I was in no position to anticipate any incidents that occurred that year.”

Daphne spoke up, frowning contemplatively. “Forgive my forwardness, but are you being honest? It seems quite far-fetched, and entirely too much trouble for it to be worthwhile. Although I must say I did come across that rumour more than a few times.”

“It is true. Why would I have wanted more ‘fame and glory’, when I already got plenty of stares for being the Boy Who Lived?” he scoffed. “And I was _fourteen_ —even I, Gryffindor extraordinaire and all that, wasn’t foolish enough to think I was capable of going up, let alone holding my own, against three of-age witches and wizards with years more experience than me. Frankly, the entire fiasco scared the living daylights out of me. All I was trying to do was hang on and hope I came out of it alive.”

The Greengrass sisters were eagerly attending to his every word, engrossed, and by the end of his explanation, they were nodding contritely. Probably thinking about their own involvement in fuelling the harebrained rumours, Harry thought absently. Or possibly the ‘Potter Stinks’ badges.

“Was the culprit ever found?” Philander asked, looking every bit as invested in the story as his daughters.

“Barty Crouch Jr. He was following orders from You-Know-Who to make sure that I would win the Tournament. By ensuring that I would reach the cup, which he had enchanted to be a Portkey, I was transported to You-Know-Who.” It was difficult not to laugh at the horrified faces of the Greengrasses. “There was an interview in _The Quibbler_ , you know. I gave a full account of what happened, and it was printed practically word for word. But it seems that despite the entire school walking around with copies, you two never got a hold of one?”

Astoria turned even redder, and Daphne stuttered, “We didn’t— _The Quibbler_ —that is to say, there weren’t many among Slytherin that were … agreeable … to the idea of reading anything written in a publication like _The Quibbler_. And with the Educational Decrees in effect, we weren’t able to even gather together to discuss what gossip we did hear.”

Sloane frowned faintly at her daughters before returning her attention to Harry. “Be that as it may, that is a horrendous affair to have been put through. I trust that the rest of your years were not so monumentally appalling?”

Harry considered the question thoughtfully. The first three years certainly weren’t as bad—no one else _died_ , after all (unless one counted Quirrell, which he tried not to, at any rate). He said as much, and saw Sloane’s frown deepen substantially.

“And from that, I can infer that the two years following _were_ just as abhorrent. Tell me, Harry,” she said, dabbing her lips daintily with a serviette, “were such lethal activities encouraged at Hogwarts for everyone, or were you the exception?”

“Er … well, Ron and Hermione—my close friends—stuck by me for pretty much every disaster I got myself into, and a few others helped in fifth year. And of course, during the last year, many more were involved …”

“I see.” The clipped words conveyed her supreme dissatisfaction. Exchanging a swift glance with her husband, who was also frowning heavily, she said abruptly, “Tell me, Harry, what do you know about wards?”

“Er,” Harry blinked, a bit lost at the sudden turn their conversation had taken. Wards? His mind flashed to the dome-like bubbles that Hermione had methodically erected around their tent every time they relocated. “Not much more than a few protection spells that Hermione put up when we were on the run this past year. A few runic wards too, but I didn’t have much time to—”

“You were not in Ancient Runes though,” Daphne broke in dismissively. “The only Gryffindor other than Granger who took the class was Thomas.”

“I looked it up in my spare time,” Harry responded wryly, raising an eyebrow at her. “Hard to believe, I know. It’s no secret that I did not care overly for my marks at Hogwarts, but when your life is endangered on a regular basis, you start to take a little more interest in such things.”

The elder Greengrass sister had the grace to concede with a nod, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was in shame at her words or at her mother’s stern look.

“I ask this,” Sloane said, “because Hogwarts is one of, if not _the_ most well-warded locations of wizarding Britain. As such, it is quite unlikely that the late headmaster Dumbledore was unaware of the dangers that assailed you within the school’s walls …”

“Which means that at the very least, he stood aside and let events happen as they did, if not had a hand in them himself,” Harry finished. He smiled grimly. “I quite agree. We—Ron, Hermione, and I, that is—came to the same conclusion ourselves after thinking back to certain occasions, and the matter has been brought up and talked over with my solicitor as well.”

From their speculative looks, Harry could see that his words had both surprised and impressed the family.

Suddenly, Philander burst out laughing. “Oh, there is no doubt you are James’ and Lily’s son. They had the same need to question anything that was not consistent with their observations, and the same healthy appreciation of their mortality. It was one reason why they were such an effective Auror partnership as well.”

Harry couldn’t contain his shock. “My mother was an _Auror_?”

“Why, of course! One of the best the department had, and they pulled every trick in the book to keep her employ for as long as possible. You see, she was very clear that once the war was over, she would be quitting Law Enforcement and pursuing her own interests.” Harry drank in his words greedily, and he continued, “You have no doubt heard of her prowess in Charms—Flitwick would sing her praises to anyone who would listen. And Slughorn was equally enamoured, both of her Potions skill and her innate charisma. She never limited herself to just these subjects, however; her interests lay in many directions. Wandlore appealed greatly to her, and she had already arranged a short course with Ollivander. She had also wished to do a Curse Breaking apprenticeship with the goblins, as well as delve into the theory and magic behind lycanthropy—an activity made all the more important by having Remus as a friend.” Philander broke off, smiling wistfully, a faraway look in his eyes. “Yes, a truly formidable woman, Lily was.”

Sloane was smiling gently too in shared memory. “It is no wonder that James—and many others—were so captivated by her; she had a fire that seemed to draw everyone in without trying. Despite their best efforts, she had the grudging admiration of even some of the more staunch purebloods, though they would never admit it. It was not uncommon to find Lily surrounded by members of all Houses in the library together discussing homework, rivalries forgotten. I believe those sessions weighed heavily on the minds of many who remained neutral in this war when they would otherwise have sided with the Dark Lord.”

Harry mulled over their words in the pensive silence that followed. This was the most he had ever heard about his mother, and he took a few moments to savour it. He knew, of course, how she looked—Hagrid’s album had seen to that—but now he could put a personality and demeanour to her body. A kind light in her eyes, a studious mien as she absently pushed back a lock of hair, a ruthless stance when she duelled … A person was taking slowly and surely shape in his mind’s eye. An ache spread through his chest as he realised he would never be able to share stories or laugh with this strong, marvellous woman—but accompanying it was a sense of awe and pride. This was his mother, the person who gave birth to him, fought for him, and then died so that he could live.

“Why did you never attempt to contact me?” He couldn’t quite keep the hurt from leaking into his voice. “Until a few days ago, I had no inkling of any remaining relatives beyond the Black family.”

An expression of great consternation crossed Philander’s face. “We did. We were aware that James and Lily had named us as potential guardians in their will, and were hoping to at least have some connection with you. However, Lily’s sister and her husband were appointed your rightful custodians, and we had no say in the matter. It was deemed best for you, between Minister Bagnold and headmaster Dumbledore, to block all contact with the magical world, so that none would catch wind of your location.”

Harry frowned. He could see how that made sense, of a sort, but that didn’t mean he liked it. 

“That did not stop us from continuing to try to find you, of course. But when years of searching yielded no results, we decided to wait until you embarked on your Hogwarts years. And then …” Philander averted his eyes. “Daphne was Sorted into Slytherin. We received a letter from her that very night, disclosing the whispers she had heard of the Dark Lord regaining power. Sloane and I were terrified, there’s no other way to put it. We knew that if those rumours were true, the deep roots the Dark Lord had planted in Slytherin would make it nearly impossible for Daphne, and then Astoria, to show any support for the Boy Who Lived without being immediately targeted themselves. So we decided—selfishly, I admit—that it would be better if they kept their heads down and remained neutral and unobtrusive, attaching themselves to neither the Dark Lord nor you. After the Dark Lord’s defeat, well …” He sighed. “Forgive me, Harry, but I could not see how you would welcome a conversation, let alone a meeting with us, when we are not deserving of such allowances.” He hung his head in shame.

“I understand.” Harry spoke into the silence.

Philander’s head jerked up in disbelief. Harry locked eyes with him, and spoke passionately. “I completely understand, Philander. In fact, I’m _glad_. Because it means that less lives were in danger, and your family made it through the devastation wreaked by the war intact. It means that I have not lost more members of my family to Voldemort, that you’re still alive to have a conversation with. So there’s nothing to forgive. But if it’s truly needed, then, er …” He racked his brain for the words he had read not two days ago. “Lord Greengrass, you and your family are hereby absolved of any and all perceived transgressions committed upon the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter. Forgiven and forgotten,” he added, smiling.

 

* * *

 

**-July 3, 1998-**

As he stepped into the bustling activity of the Three Broomsticks, barely sidestepping a staggering, red-faced wizard, Harry wondered again if he shouldn’t simply head back and spend a quiet evening with Teddy and Andy instead. The last couple of weeks had been a slow and steady increase in the number of people he met, courtesy of Andy’s and Hermione’s meddling. And now here he was, weaving invisibly through the Friday night regulars and Hogwarts staff alike, to a table in the corner where he was finally going to meet up with the old DA members.

Only one person was there so far, slowly sipping a chilled butterbeer. Harry slid in opposite him, finally throwing off his Invisibility Cloak. A wand was in his face as he said, “Hey, Dean.”

“ _Jesus_ , Harry, warn a bloke, would you?” Tucking the wand back into its holster, Dean set his bottle down and gave him a friendly grin. “So, Oh Great Chosen One Who Vanquished He Who Must Not Be Named, what brings you into this neck of the woods? Finally decided hermit-dom isn’t your calling, have you?”

Harry kicked him under the table, feeling the heat rise in his face. “Oh, shove off, you git. I’m here now, aren’t I? And besides, I hear you’ve framed and hung your Order of Merlin above your fireplace?” he teased back.

Dean’s complexion, unlike Harry’s own, simply did not do red. What’s more, after enduring years of Seamus’ ribbing at anything and everything possible, Harry rather suspected that he was basically inured to all embarrassment. “No shame in letting mere mortals bask in the glory of it,” Dean shrugged, grinning. “Mum’s right proud, though whenever she sees it, she goes back and forth between telling me what a brave man I’ve become and scolding me for fighting in a war without telling her.”

They laughed together, and Harry said, “Well, you should count your lucky stars, mate. It’s a far sight better than Mrs. Weasley and Andy; they just seem to whisk plates of food out of nowhere whenever they can get a hold of me. And even my crotchety old house-elf won’t help me escape their clutches.”

Dean snorted. “They do have a point, you know.” Reaching over the table, he picked up Harry’s hand, pinching his skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at you—you’re a bag of skin and bones, is what you are. And on top of that, you peck and nibble at your food like a little bird. It’s no wonder they want to fatten you up, mate.”

He continued grousing good-naturedly, but Harry couldn’t hear his words. His entire attention was focused on the points of contact between his hand and the larger one holding it. _Oh_ , he thought faintly, as sparks zinged through his fingers. _Oh_.

“Harry?”

His hand was cool on the tabletop once more, but he could still feel the remnants of an electric current buzzing under his skin. Blinking, he said, “Yeah? Sorry, wool-gathering. You know, for a teenaged bloke, you do a pretty good impression of a mother of seven,” he quipped, laughing at Dean’s mock-affronted expression.

Before Dean could respond, shouts of greeting rang as Seamus, Lee, Parvati, Katie, and Alicia walked over. Hugs and pats on the back were exchanged, and they all sat down.

As conversation flowed, Harry rubbed his palm surreptitiously, sneaking quick peeks at Dean as he did so. Surely, this was a _mite_ late to be realising he was attracted to males? As his eyes traced the other’s smooth, dark skin and strong jaw, he sighed quietly, resigned. Late or not, he was definitely attracted to blokes. But he _had_ been in love with Ginny, and he still thought Parvati was stunning, so he also liked women. Bisexual, his mind supplied, remembering Mr. Weasley’s very thorough Talk during the summer before second year. Or, he considered, thinking back to Hermione’s armful of pamphlets and detailed definitions, pansexual?

Seamus bumped his shoulder, breaking him out of his musings. “So, where’s the rest of the golden trio? Aren’t you three always attached at the hip?”

Harry nudged him back playfully. “When they’re attached to the mouth most of the time, it’s hard to stay stuck to their hips. Er, you did know they’re, er, involved, yeah?”

Seamus rolled his eyes. “Mate, it _was_ a bit hard to miss them sucking each other’s face off once you’d offed Voldemort. Thought you’d have been a part of that too, though,” he said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I—we—that is—” he sputtered, mortified at the insinuation. Sharing a dorm with Seamus for six years had hardened him to a certain lack of filter and tact, but Harry was sure that at that moment, he was at least the colour of a newly-painted fire engine. “We—we’re not like that!” he protested finally, frowning as the whole table guffawed, “they’re like siblings to me. And they’re very much in love with each other,” he said firmly.

The universe hates me, he thought to himself as Ron and Hermione appeared by their booth at that moment, triggering fresh peals of laughter around the table.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Harry was feeling pleasantly tipsy. As each person had taken a turn to buy another round, seats had shifted, and Hermione was now resting her head on his shoulder as he leaned heavily into Dean on his other side. His thigh was tingling where it pressed against Dean’s, and he knew he had a goofy grin on his face.

Over the top of Hermione’s head, Ron beamed lopsidedly at him, a glass of Firewhiskey raised in a toast. “Help a mate out, will you? Is it ‘those who ride a dragon together stay together’ or ‘those who camp together stay together’? ‘Cause Herm—Her—Mione says it’s the camping one, but riding a dragon’s way cooler, innit?”

No one else was paying any attention to their conversation, but Harry gave the question serious thought. Under the alcohol-induced haziness, neither option seemed quite right. “Personally, I prefer ‘those who defeat a troll together stay together’, myself.”

Lifting her head, Hermione placed a wet kiss on Harry’s cheek, and another on Ron’s. “Yes, that’s where it all started, isn’t it? My heroic boys,” she said contentedly, giving them another peck each before falling back onto Harry’s shoulder. 

A warm, fond feeling bloomed in his heart as he idly looked around. Across from him, Ernie Macmillan was thumping Justin Finch-Fletchley’s back as they laughed uproariously at something Angelina had said. Beside her, George was passing a hand casually over Michael Corner’s and Zacharias Smith’s drinks, a sly look on his face. Padma and Parvati were giggling about Merlin knew what with Lavender and Luna, and Seamus was waving his hands about excitedly, narrating a harrowing tale of daring and adventure to anyone who would listen And here he was, cocooned amidst them all, surrounded by those who stuck by him through the worst of it all.

“Alright, Harry?” Dean asked softly, the hot breaths misting over his ear sending shivers down his back.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, flushing under the inviting gaze even as his grin stretched wider. This close, he could see the different shades of brown in his almost-black eyes, and his own reflection seemed to approach nearer.

They’re going to kiss, he realised, suppressing the wild giggles that threatened to erupt. Warm lips descended on his a second later, and he lost all ability to think. “Mm,” he sighed happily, snuggling closer, vaguely noting that Hermione’s head had landed in his lap.

With only Ginny as his previous experience—no, Cho did _not_ count, no matter what anyone said—he didn’t have very much to compare to. But what he did know was the he liked it. Immensely. There were similarities, like that delightful thing Dean was doing with his tongue, and it occurred to Harry that Dean and Ginny used to snog each other—wasn’t that an odd thought. But while Ginny’s kisses were fierce and confident, Dean kissed like he had all the time in the world, languidly and sure. His strong fingers were curled in his hair, thumb stroking the corners of his jaw.

If he hadn’t been intoxicated before, he definitely was now. His last coherent thought, before he gave himself over completely to the thrilling sensations, was that he hoped he would remember this come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whadaya know, I updated! Holidays kind of got away from me, especially as I hadn’t seen my family and friends in months and months. And as this is the one story that has far more plot than any of the others, it takes a lot more time to write :c
> 
> Romance tends to make me feel all fuzzy but also want to cringe, so writing that last bit was a battle with myself (ugh, how am I going to keep going??). I hope it turned out alright! Also, I thought I’d give dating the sections a try—something I keep a note of for myself but realised that you guys might appreciate it too. Just let me know if you prefer it with or without the dates? Thanks!
> 
> Hope you’ve all had a lovely break, and happy new year! Reviews are loved! :) :)


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